


Enraptured

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Priests, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's sacrificial ass, Barebacking, But also very quickly smutty, Creampie, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Expect a lot of thirst, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, Happy Ending, Incubus/Succubus Crowley (Good Omens), Insofar as these two are always tongue tied idiots, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Monks, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Omg there was only one bed, Only Eco can judge me, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, The Name of the Rose AU, Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Yeah Aziraphale is a priest in a way, but not really, but very loosely, with art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28260351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: There are books missing from the library in the Abbey. A crime, Aziraphale suspects, that carries something much more serious underneath. He isn't expecting to deal with a demon summoned to kill him. He isn't expecting to find an ally in the oddest place.An ally, and something else.“Okay, so. The thing is,” Crowley starts, shifting again in his spot, “uh, someone wants you dead.”Aziraphale blinks. “Pardon?”“Didn’t you hear me? Someone wants you dead. As in deceased. As in six-feet-under. As in–”“Alright, alright! That’s quite alright, thank you,” Aziraphale chokes out. “I still don’t see–”Crowley heaves a sigh. “Listen, Angel.” He leans forward, elbows pressed against his knees, his hair falling around him like a curtain made of fire. He closes his eyes before continuing. “Truth is, someone summoned me to, er, to kill you, actually.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 366
Kudos: 462
Collections: Clerical Omens, GO-Events Good Omens Mystery AU Event Works, Good Omens AUs, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Mystery Event of the GO Events Discord Server. It was very difficult to settle for a topic, but in the middle of the outline of an other idea I realized how much I wanted to explore this dynamic and also because In The Name of The Rose defined me as a book when I was younger. Which fair, this is just loosely based in, and Eco forgive me for that lol. And also, because despite everything, I'm just a very thirsty author. 
> 
> So here we are with thirsty monk and Demon.
> 
> As always my love to [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for being my very supportive beta and also to the amazing [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for hearing me ramble about plot and helping me so much in everything. 💕
> 
> And to my lovelies [caedmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmon/pseuds/Caedmon), [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) and [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) who always encourage me to be my best thirsty self. I LOVE YOU ALL, MY BABIES.💕💕
> 
> I have zero words to describe the INCREDIBLE banner that[Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) drew for me. I'M DYING!!
> 
> There's nsfw art in the middle of the first chapter by the lovely Lei Sam 💕💙

Another night without supper. 

By now Aziraphale should know better and ought to stop telling the Abbot every time a manuscript goes missing. Three already since this whole thing began. 

At this rate he’s going to end up without a morsel more often than not. Understandable punishment, perhaps, given that, as the Librarian, the books are entirely his responsibility. The first time it had happened, Aziraphale had thought it might be a mistake in his sterling inventory, an astray notation on the wrong page. Ridiculous idea, obviously. He could locate any thome with his eyes closed, without consulting the ledger, but despite roaming around the library and squinting in the growing darkness of the scriptorium, he had still come up empty-handed, raising his guttering candle with a trembling hand. 

Not a matter of trifling misplacement, then. 

He notices at first that it isn’t an often-sought book. In fact, it's one that hasn’t been consulted since the previous Librarian was in charge, the late Brother Raphael. Aziraphale remembers the book still, a richly illuminated psalter, pages friable like altar bread, made of the finest vellum. The cover itself had been worth a hundred of the other volumes on Aziraphale’s shelves. 

The other two volumes had been painfully similar.

Which made this entire business far more dreadful. Aziraphale is sure someone has stolen the manuscripts from under his very nose to sell them out of the Abbey. 

And the only people allowed to enter are all monks. Someone from within must be the culprit. 

He stirs in bed, kicking off the duvet, too fixed on the rumbling noises of his gut. Thinking for the thousandth, sinful time, perhaps he could scurry down to the kitchens and procure himself the dregs of tonight’s meal. 

Too many thoughts, not enough food. Terrible combination. 

The wind howls through the cracks in the windows, rustling the threadbare curtains, pricking the skin of his cheeks. A stern call to attention telling him the spirit perseveres in martyrdom. That is, after all, an incontrovertible truth. He’s been here long enough to get used to the chill of the night seeping through his clothes, the hardness of the mattress digging into every sore muscle clenched from the day hunched over codices and quills. 

He’s been here long enough that he doesn’t remember the face of his father giving him away. _Too many mouths to feed, Aziraphale_. 

The words, though. He remembers those. 

The years have filed off their edge, and Aziraphale finds the pain doesn’t carve as deeply, a blunt chisel that has served to mold him into what he is today. Bowing before God in this cloister, untainted. Buried deep in his cowl, unseen. 

He's grateful at least. He'd ended up in a far better situation than he suspects any of his family could have had. Sometimes, on Sundays, when he leaves for the market, stands in the middle of the clamor of merchants trading wares, he thinks of his brothers, of his mother. All of them lost to him now. Even if he could, he wouldn’t know where to start looking. And what for? 

This is the place he belongs.

He tries to pray, but if he’s honest with himself, which is always a very dangerous affair, he has never found the roll of Hail Marys, the run of the Lord’s Prayer along his tongue, to be quite as effective a path to peace as diving into a good book. 

At least here, the not-answer is a given. 

Aziraphale isn’t worried about this, at all. He has always known his relationship with the Almighty is a thing of two, at least that’s what the scriptures say, even if the toll on Earth has to pass and to be paid through men who might say his faith is rather lacking. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

Abbot Gabriel is right. It’s a terrifying thing, thinking. 

He takes a breath and glances up at the shifting shadows tiptoeing at the edges of the place where the moonlight splatters the walls silver. He follows the lines of the few things he has in his room. A table, a chair, a candlestick, the image of Christ nailed to cross. Familiar things that somehow manage to appease the roar of the too-many questions inside him. 

Sleep refuses to come, even though he is exhausted.

Not an odd thing, given how he can't stop thinking about the sour bread he has seen the cook making, and the pork he smelled on the way up to his room. He tries to divert his attention, and perhaps he could have tried to drift off by reading the book he currently has stored under his pillow, but he can't waste a candle. Much as he would like to, he can't use them for more than the strictly necessary. 

He gets up from the bed to serve himself some water from the jug next to his window. His mouth is dusty, absolutely parched, and his tongue feels so thick it's sticking to his teeth, to his palate. He doesn’t think he could utter a prayer for comfort right now, even if he wanted to do so. 

The slabs of the floor are cold against his feet, and his white tunic is barely enough to protect him from the air that's biting at his skin, making its easy way under the linen. 

Aziraphale pours the water into his clay cup carefully, and for a moment there's only the glug of liquid in the growing silence, soft, like a caress, rising over the call of a barn-owl, over the fitful soar of the crickets far below in the country. He raises the cup to his lips, and takes a sip, but the water turns to ice in his throat. 

There’s _someone_ watching him. There’s _something_ in the room behind him. He can feel it at the nape of his neck, a faint scent of smoke traveling in the breath of the scant warmth of his room. 

A rush of air, sharp-edged and cutting, comes from the outside, and his cup shatters in pieces against the floor. 

Aziraphale’s heart thrums in his temples, threatening to burst out of his chest, each beat heavy like a rock falling off a cliff. He feels a sharp cry forming behind his palate, there, grating at the back of his throat, blocking words like a bar. Every shard of heat flows off his body, leaving him weak, his legs barely resisting the pull from below. 

He's supposed to be safe here, the tall walls concealing him from any danger, keeping him whole leaning into the protection of the cloth, always out of reach. 

Apparently he's wrong. 

Fear singes the dermis that flares goosebumps across his back, his arms, down the side of his torso. 

An intake of breath through clenched teeth. 

Aziraphale turns around. 

There, just at the foot of his bed, the same bed in which he rests every night. Aziraphale's eyes widen, his mouth going strangely slack, his chest tight with an unknown feeling curling around his ribs like ivy. 

_A man_. No, not a man, he realizes as he watches the glint of golden eyes with dagger-like pupils. 

A _demon_. 

Something stirs in Aziraphale’s gut, a heat that wasn’t there two seconds ago, flooding his arms, his legs, painting his face crimson. Everything is hot, weirdly hot in a winter that seems to seep everywhere. 

"Ngk. Hello," the creature greets. 

“G-get thee behind me, Satan!” Aziraphale's voice is a feeble thing, breathy and cracking at the edges. 

“Hey, relax,” the demon says, raising his hands. An offering of peace. Aziraphale wonders if perhaps he has fallen asleep and he’s walking the valleys of Morpheus. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Aziraphale tries to snatch his gaze away, because he can't help to notice the demon is… the sight of him is, well, it is _arresting_. 

It’s a strong pull at the base of his stomach, all the way back to his spine, like the call of the sea to a sailor, taunting and tempting, threatening with storm and rollicking waves in a silent night. 

And he shouldn’t... he certainly shouldn’t… Aziraphale clenches his teeth hard enough to grind gravel, his breath coming ragged, making his crucifix rise and fall over his chest. He ought not to be looking at this… this creature... like this. He ought not to be looking at this creature _at all_. 

But his eyes are trained on the figure before him. On the smooth, pale skin that seems warm and _begs_ for Aziraphale's touch, for the lazy drag of a hand across the plane of that stomach. On the angles and divots sketched by the way the light falls on the body standing _naked_ in front of him. 

Certainly this can’t be the same abhorrent vision carved in the _tympanum_ of the church, with its sharp teeth, head and legs of a goat, a river of frogs and locust flowing free from its mouth. 

It can’t be. It can’t be an angel - for some reason Aziraphale is sure of it. And that perfect, breathtaking face can’t belong to this earth. 

The flame of his hair slips down his sides, reaching the trim curve of his waist, curling around the flow of his slender arms, over the slopes of his shoulders. His face is set in an expression of surprise, mirroring the one Aziraphale must be sporting as well, lips - _red, so very red_ \- parted, perfect brows spiking up. 

It’s difficult for the fear to settle when Aziraphale traces the long line of the demon’s neck, the unfair beauty of that face, with his high cheekbones and sharp nose. The creature shifts on his feet with effortless grace that only draws Aziraphale’s attention to the rippling line of the muscles in his chest, the expanse of his legs with glimmering black scales around his narrow hips, shimmering on his inner thighs. 

The heavy weight of his cock. 

Aziraphale bites back the swallow, the nervous lick of lips that would be too telling. 

"Lord, have mercy," Aziraphale whispers, crushing his eyes closed. "Christ, have mercy."

"Er, just– cut it out, okay," the demon says. "Like I said, I'm not gonna harm you. I just want a word with you."

Aziraphale refuses to listen. He’s read about this. This way lies madness, or something of the sort. He fetches his rosary from his nightstand in a movement that resembles a lurch, and flickers his eyes open. "Mary, Mother of God, deliver us from evil."

"Oi, you're not making this easy." Aziraphale watches the demon cross his arms over his chest, a flicker of annoyance quirking his lips. "Come off it. You're really not gonna make me leave with that nonsense. Stop it and listen."

Aziraphale considers the exit, but the door is directly behind the demon and he won’t risk falling into those… those _claws_ , apparently, his brain registers. A stupid, wild side of him screams that he should, that he should seize this chance and let himself be embraced by those arms, let himself be ripped apart by the sharp drag of a claw over muscle, a way to debride himself of lies. _Just a touch_. His skin seems too tight all around him. 

This must be another of the demon’s tricks, making Aziraphale desire him with the fire of the flesh that is stirring his own cock, now hard and aching in his loincloth. His breath catches in the flare of his ribs, unable to properly reach his lungs as he fights the unnerving need to reach, lean forward and finally _touch_. 

There’s barely three feet between them

He swats down the idea. He’s afraid that this uncanny, dangerous feeling is bleeding out through his flesh, that the demon somehow can perceive, can sense these intimations of sin, how easy it would be to make Aziraphale fall.

How easy it would be to push him off the ledge and watch him being shredded to pieces on the rocks below. 

Aziraphale takes one single, ragged breath. 

There’s really nowhere to go. Nothing to do. And the creature _won’t go_. 

“What do you want?” His voice is a tremulous thing, and he takes a step back in the small space. It’s difficult to keep his eyes fastened to the creature’s face and not let his gaze drift downwards. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, kind of a long story,” the demon says. Then, probably seeing Aziraphale squinting at him, adds quickly, “That I fully intend to tell you if you just…. Can you put your whatsit down?”

Aziraphale looks at his own hand, still a bit stunned. “My rosary?”

“Yeah. Not a big fan of those, me. They sting a bit.”

“How do I know you aren’t going to attack me if I put it down?”

The demon rolls his eyes and cocks a hip. “Listen, monk–”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale blurts out. He isn’t even sure why it’s so important to give the demon his name. Why is it so important for him to let him know that he isn’t just a habit, white linen and silver around his neck. 

“Yeah. No. That’s gonna shred my tongue. ‘M gonna call you…” He gives Aziraphale a once-over that makes him swallow thickly, down a throat that is once again dry. Aziraphale can’t be sure, but in the _chiaroscuro_ drawn by the shadows, the demon’s eyes seem to twinkle with something that makes his stomach twist hotly. Then he adds, “‘M gonna call you Angel.”

Aziraphale blinks.“I beg your pardon?” Of all the things he expected to be called, this one veered off track the most. “Why would you–”

“Though, I gotta say you look nothing like those tossers, if you ask me,” the demon interrupts. “You’re more like… like those from the paintings.”

This encounter is about to give Aziraphale whiplash. He can feel the barrage of thoughts battering at his skull as he tries to compress and make sense of his questions. Up until now, the topic about evil and divinity had seemed a metaphysical matter which was rather nice to discuss over some mead, a blur of yellow pages with abstruse prose and nothing else. 

Now, however…

“Are you a demon, really?” he finally asks. Because it wouldn’t be good to assume one’s allegiance with the King of Lies. The threshold for error seems fairly small, though. 

“A bright one you are, aren’t you?” The demon quips with a drip of acid in his words, and it’s impossible not to notice the clench of his jaw as he speaks. “What tipped you in? The scales? The claws?” 

“Your face, actually." 

“Right.” A mirthless smirk. “The eyes.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He can feel the truth frothing up in his throat, despite himself. Something in the demon’s face, perhaps the tight set of his mouth, of his shoulders. The way he tenses, he _braces_ as if expecting a blow he can’t deter. Aziraphale has seen the same expression in men that came for blessings to the church, preparing for a battle they knew they couldn’t win. 

“No,” Aziraphale grinds out. “It’s only that I,” he clears his throat. _Might as well_. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you are. You certainly can’t be human.”

Those impossibly inhuman eyes open wide, gold-leaf flecks on a face of chiseled marble. Silence unfurls in the room, swelling between them, filling every nook and cranny. 

“I, uh, ngh. You can call me Crowley,” he says, finally, looking through the window at the wine-dark sky pin-pricked with glittering stars. 

“Crowley?” 

“Yup.”

“Doesn’t sound very demonic,” Aziraphale considers, watching the regal profile of the d- of _Crowley_ cutting against the somber walls, his own heart heavy with something he can't name. 

Crowley cranes his neck and looks at him. “Yeah. Well. I live to disappoint. Only reason for my existence, really.”

Aziraphale lowers his rosary and hangs it over his nightstand. "Much as I'd like to continue this conversation,” he says rolling his eyes, “it's quite late and I'm sure there's somewhere else you must be sorely needed.”

“First thing’s first, Angel.” Crowley takes a step forward, and he smiles with a sly quality that wasn’t there a second ago. “Isn’t there anything you want? Anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts tangle like yarn, pressing down at a point between his gut and his groin, a thump heavy between his legs. It’s obvious by the luxurious roll of Crowley’s hips as he takes another step forward, the hard line of his cock, the flick of a tongue along his bottom lip, what he’s implying. And Aziraphale can’t lie to himself about how sorely tempted he is. 

But he isn’t going to fall prey to the traps of sin. He isn’t naive enough not to know the rumors that circle around the cloister, brothers engaging with each other. And while Aziraphale has no qualms against it, he has never felt the pull strongly enough to make him tilt over the edge.

And he _can’t_ give in before a demon. His soul would be forfeit. 

And there’s also the significant detail, a not-quite-thought resolution, barely a crack in the surface, that _if_ this were to happen this isn’t how he wants to do this for the first time, a transaction branded in Hell. This must be Crowley’s job– his _job_ , Aziraphale thinks, and crushes the light scratch of a barb at a thought he doesn’t want to unravel in detail. 

No, definitely not.

His breath comes out stuttered, hot-stained. “Y-yes,” he says finally, his jaw working. “Something to eat would be nice.”

Crowley stops, his mouth falling slightly open, his eyes wide again as if he were looking at Aziraphale for the first time. Which is ridiculous, because between the first fright and right now, a good half hour must have slipped by. 

Realizing there isn’t any food coming, Aziraphale clears his throat over the violent blush of his cheeks. “Now, stop playing. There’s the door, mind how you go.”

“Sorry.” Crowley takes a step back, tension filling the sinews of his shoulders again. “No can do.”

"Why not? What are you doing here?"

Crowley breathes and raises his hands, placating. "I'm gonna tell you everything, Angel, relax. Just sit, 'cause it's rather a lot to take in."

Aziraphale shifts slowly until his legs are brushing the mattress, then sits, but the new position puts him in direct line with Crowley's cock. And that is a sight he doesn't need right now. 

"Oh, good Lord." He quickly stands up and rummages through a small pile of clothes on a nearby chair. He selects a simple tunic, the only spare one he has. "Put this on," he says, shoving the cloth into Crowley's arms. "No need to be gallivanting around all…” he makes a loop-like gesture in Crowley’s direction, focusing on a very interesting notch in the wall. 

“Er…”

“Just put it on." 

Crowley says nothing, but takes the clothing Aziraphale is offering. There’s a rustle of fabric before Crowley speaks again. 

“This is fucking weird." Aziraphale turns to see him pinching a side of the tunic, that is somewhat big on him. “I’m never going to understand the fixation you humans have with the naked body. It’s just flesh, blood, and lots of things that nobody understands.”

“I'll let you know we don’t have any type of fixation," Aziraphale says, primly.

“Then why cover it up?”

“Because,” Aziraphale says tersely, trying to set an argument that he wasn’t expecting to have today. Or ever. 

Crowley snorts. “Tremendously valid, Angel. Can’t find anything to say to that? You’ve completely–”

“Oh shush, you.” Aziraphale sits on his bed again, and signals Crowley to take the chair. “It’s only polite. And besides, it’s almost winter.”

“If you say so.” Crowley shrugs, evidently not wanting to drag this out any further. He takes the seat Aziraphale is offering, pulling at the tunic as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. “So,” he says finally. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure he wants to hear what Crowley has to say. There’s still a residual fear thrashing in the storm-tossed depths of him, because a run-in with a demon isn’t exactly a regular Tuesday, and despite how calmed and absurdly gentle Crowley seems, he’s still the enemy. 

An adversary. 

“So,” Aziraphale echoes, his nerves alight, because all the soft words and unbridled charm could well be a ploy, a plot to make him lower his defenses. It worries Aziraphale, the fact that this realization comes more from his brain than from his heart. 

“Right.” Crowley tries to adopt what Aziraphale thinks is a formal position, but he doesn’t seem to know how to control his spine in relation to the chair. “Okay, so. The thing is,” Crowley starts, shifting again in his spot, “uh, someone wants you dead.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Pardon?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Someone wants you dead. As in deceased. As in six-feet-under. As in–”

“Alright, alright! That’s quite alright, thank you,” Aziraphale chokes out. “I still don’t see–”

Crowley heaves a sigh. “Listen, Angel.” He leans forward, elbows pressed against his knees, his hair falling around him like a curtain made of fire. He closes his eyes before continuing. “Truth is, someone summoned me to, er, to kill you, actually.”

Aziraphale jolts back upright and grabs his rosary again. “Get thee–”

“That’s getting old, you know?” Crowley huffs. “I told you I don’t wanna harm you, and if I wanted you dead I would’ve killed you when you were there by the window. So, please. Can you just–” He makes some gesture Aziraphale interprets as an invitation to sit again. 

"What do you want from me?" Aziraphale croaks out. "If you don't want me dead, then why are you here in my room?"

"To be honest, it’s quite simple. The idiot who summoned me tasked me with the job of killing you. Which, fine. Whatever. But the point is, I can't do that."

"And why not?"

"Because I'm not that kind of demon. We can't just take a life like that without there being a fucking riot in the ethereal plane for it," he says, as if explaining why the Earth is round. 

"And what _kind_ of demon are you? I would've thought ruining humans was within the list of things that are practically common ground for every demon."

"Ruining them? Perhaps. Making them damn themselves? Count on it." Crowley sighs. "Killing them? That's beyond my paygrade, honestly."

"And what is it that you do then?"

Crowley's cheeks flush, the long line of his throat working around a swallow. "I'm a… an Incubus, actually."

"You're a sex demon!" Aziraphale whips out, feeling the rush of heat mottling up his neck. "You feed from men's pleasure!"

That's why, then. That's why Aziraphale can feel that unfettered _need_ roiling under his skin whenever he looks at Crowley. He's built for it. To _tempt_. And the offer from before was nothing but Crowley touting his wares. A transaction. He hadn't been wrong. Something shallow and frail, utterly without meaning. Not that he has to strain himself, considering outlandish scenarios of it, being a monk and all that. 

_Good Lord_. Where are all these thoughts even coming from? 

"I don't know what kind of literature you're reading, but let me tell you, I wasn't expecting for you to be so informed," Crowley quirks a brow, a hint of mockery lilting in his consonants. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, "I'll have you know, I'm the Librarian. I need to know all those things."

"Yeah, perfectly usable knowledge, that," Crowley scoffs, throwing his head back. 

Aziraphale can't stop his eyes from tracing the long slope of his neck, once again, gleaming under the pale moonlight. It's captivating, the way the light seems to silhouette him in such a manner that makes Aziraphale wonder how something _(someone)_ so beautiful could be bound to walk among ashes for eternity. Somehow it doesn’t seem _fair_ . He swirls paragraphs and lines he knows rather well, droning them inwardly, a burst of knowledge he’s learned by rote, but has never felt in his bones. Everything has always seemed so _abstract_. 

The Fallen. The _Unforgivable_. 

How much of that is true? He could ask Crowley, but somehow inquiring the demon about his Fall seems to stamp and leap over personal boundaries. 

“I still don’t see why you can’t just leave,” Aziraphale says. If he’s honest with himself – again, dreadful business, that – there’s a doleful frisson at the thought of being left alone in his chamber, but he shucks it as he would an uncomfortable garment. 

“Yeah, well.” Crowley licks his lips leaving a glistening sheen over them. “The wanker who summoned me has an object that ties me to Earth, and I can’t just go and get it. So, er, the thing is uh,” he clears his throat, and his voice is hoarse-edged, “I need your help.”

Aziraphale recoils. “What?”

“I said that I need your help. What, are you deaf?”

“Very charming, very polite request,” Aziraphale says, haughtily. “I don’t see why you think I would help you, when you were just appointed–”

“Summoned,” Crowley corrects. 

Aziraphale follows, undeterred, “ _called_ here just to kill me.”

“The thing is, Angel, first, I don’t think you’d like the idea of a demon on the loose wreaking havoc in this fine place.” Crowley sprawls in the diminutive space of the chair. “Second, you have a personal interest in finding out who this person is so you can watch your back–”

“Why can’t you just tell me who this person is, if you say you wish me no harm?”

“The idiot covered their face. Sorry.”

Aziraphale huffs. “And what’s going to happen to me once this unsavory character realizes you haven’t done their bidding?”

Crowley shrugs, “They'll probably think I lied to them about being able to do it, which I did to get rid of them, but they don't know I _can't_ just leave, which, fair. Though I don’t think they have it in them to actually go through with it by themselves, and honestly, demonic artifacts are not easy to find, so I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to repeat this charade. But,” and here Crowley’s voice goes rough-hewn, ragged and warm against the chill of the night, “I promise you I’ll try to protect you as best as I can.”

There’s some sort of dizziness that makes Aziraphale’s head spin, a sharp intake of air struggling to reach his lungs, while Crowley’s gaze fixes on him for a second and then skitters away. 

Aziraphale clenches his jaw. “And what if he disposes of your object once they see you won’t come back?”

“Doubtful,” Crowley says, shaking his head, the strands of red hair staining the tunic like blood. “It’s a golden bracelet with a snake on it. It’s pretty bloody distinctive, and if they’re somewhat intelligent I think they would hold on to it until they can trade it for something better, which means we don’t have forever.” 

Aziraphale tells himself that saying _yes_ is the logical thing. He tells himself it’s a matter of self-preservation, even if he feels that longing, that odd thing branching out, tight beneath his sternum when he looks at Crowley, needling him to take whatever dregs of time he can with the demon's company. 

_Ridiculous_. 

“Fine, I’ll help you," Aziraphale says, disregarding his pink-tinted cheeks. 

“You will?” Crowley’s brows arch in surprise, his shoulders drooping as if he had removed a heavy weight from them. He seems positively stunned as if, despite his insouciant demeanor and casual words, Aziraphale’s approval is something he wasn’t expecting at all. “I mean, yeah. T-thanks.”

"We need to come up with a plan for it, though."

"’Course," Crowley nods. 

"And you will listen to me. Otherwise I'll stop helping you."

"Fair enough."

"And you'll be honest with me, about everything."

Crowley's lips curl at that, "Can do."

"And–" 

"Listen, Angel," Crowley says, and Aziraphale stops in his tirade at the drift of seriousness coming from him. "Can I come closer?" 

Aziraphale almost curls in his spot. "What? What for?" 

"I just… Can I?" Crowley asks, a gleam of earnestness in the gold of his eyes. 

Aziraphale looks at him over the tremors of his quick-beating heart, feeling off-balance, lopsided, suddenly pulled to the top of a staircase to look at the bottom. 

He doesn't want to fall. 

"Of course," he says, regardless. 

Crowley saunters to the bed, with a sway of hips that pulls at the linen, and sits next to Aziraphale on the mattress. Mercifully a handbreadth away. 

"You still want food?" He asks, which absolutely isn't close to anything Aziraphale had been expecting, so he just nods, too awestruck to speak. 

"Right." Crowley snaps his fingers and a platter appears on the bed, covered with bread, softening butter, cheese, and dried meat. A goblet of wine in his hand. 

Aziraphale's stomach rumbles at the thick smell of the pork but he doesn't dare reach a hand. Who in his sane mind would eat something provided by a demon?

"Why?" He asks, furrowing his brows.

"You asked for it, did you not?" Crowley nudges the platter in his direction. "Thought it would be a good idea to show you we're, er, we're working together, that's all. Good will and all that."

Aziraphale knows it's dangerous. Even if a few minutes ago he has already committed to the endeavor to help this demon – and he shoves the theological implications away – that's no excuse for disregarding common sense. 

But then Crowley says, "Don't you like it? Should I get you something else? I'm afraid I'm not entirely used to human food."

And it's so… _so hones_ t the way he says it, tilting his head to the side, just the barest hint of something disarmingly keen dancing and twirling in his words, Aziraphale can do nothing but shake his head, his throat dry. 

"No, no, that's fine," he pushes through. "Perfectly fine."

Crowley smiles at him, and it's soft and gentle, incredibly open, and Aziraphale's breath fans hot over his own lips. 

Because there's a thought, a barely-grasped and nascent idea that outlines in the fore, as he watches Crowley pick a piece of cheese from the platter with slender, delicate fingers and offer it to him.

Aziraphale _trusts_ him. 

And the realization falls so heavily he opens his mouth without thinking and closes it around Crowley's offering, his lips trapping the pads of Crowley's fingers on the way. There’s a brief, short moment of shock where Aziraphale doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to breathe, because every speck of attention is centered on the demon before him. His fingers are rough and warm, _so very warm,_ falling inside Aziraphale's mouth, pressing against his damp lower lip, pulling it a bit down. Aziraphale knows he should put some distance between them, scramble away perhaps, but the rational part of his brain seems deafened, muffled to silence and he can’t tear his gaze off Crowley’s face.

“ _Angel_ , you-” Crowley sounds breathless, his throat clicking wet around the words, unable to forge through, which makes Aziraphale’s knees quiver. 

His heart beats fast, ringing in his ears, pounding so hard it’s almost painful, and Aziraphale feels dizzy as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He watches Crowley's lips part slightly, the catch of an unaware breath, pitched not louder than a whisper, leaving him in a rush. His yellow eyes, blown dark and deep, are trained on him, down on his mouth, as if hanging on Aziraphale's next move. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

There's an odd feeling tingling down his spine, a visceral need writhing like a living wire under his skin, a spark lit, running wild along his legs, his arms, making his skin prickle, and he struggles to draw his next breath, to swallow the next scalding gulp. 

He desperately wants to stop this moment in time, because in his forty-odd years he hasn’t ever felt as alive as in this moment, and it’s terrifying. 

Crowley moves his fingers slightly, and Aziraphale is fully aware of their weight, of their faint smoky taste, and he mentally sweeps over every sensation, every press and slide, to store them away in a place where no one could pry them away from him. Crowley swallows then, the tip of his tongue dragging wet along the seam of his mouth, leaving a gleaming sheen in its wake and Aziraphale feels a rush of red-tinged warmth uncoiling from his gut, up his chest, making his face burn. It's impossible for Crowley to miss this, to miss how badly Aziraphale is shaken, and perhaps he should feel too _exposed_. But Crowley's cheeks are deliciously flushed, the track of freckles over them like stardust. 

Outside, somewhere far away, a lone owl chants forlornly.

"Right," Crowley says, lowering his hand, and he grinds the words out of his throat, coarsely, as if he hadn't spoken in ages, "you finish that and then go to sleep. We can talk about everything else in the morning."

He levers himself up before giving Aziraphale the wine goblet and ambles to the window, without looking back. 

Aziraphale’s breath leaves him in a hot gust, and he tracks the sinuous lines of Crowley, immobile as he is, wondering if that flickering flame licking at his insides can be tamed before it turns him to ashes.

Before it burns him to the ground. 

He finishes his meal more by principle than actual hunger, and it isn't until almost an hour later when he's managed to rein in the wild stream of his thoughts, tucked under the blanket, that it occurs to him he just witnessed a temptation. 

Aziraphale looks at the imperturbable figure of Crowley still standing there by the window, and the air rushes out of his lungs at the realization. 

It isn't wise to let his guard down entirely, as uncouth as it is to doubt, Crowley is still a demon after all. 

_He's a demon_ , Aziraphale repeats to himself, feeling the growing unease creeping up around him like thorny vines. _He can't be trusted entirely_. 

Sleep is slow to come. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley reflects about the monk helping him, and Aziraphale finds that things may not be as simple as he has been taught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my love to [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for being my very supportive beta 💕
> 
> And to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) and [Nadzeja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) for proofreading and encouraging this chapter.💕

Well,  _ fuck _ . 

Summoned for bloody  _ murder _ and now this. 

Crowley tucks his hands inside the ample pockets of the coarse tunic. The monk –  _ Aziraphale,  _ there’s no need to pretend his name hasn’t been stuck in his brain from the first moment he heard it – had been right. The chilly winter wind howls through the arrow slit carrying every sharp bite of the first frost from the countryside below. Even up here on the plateau, the dregs of slush slip past the embrasures, swirling merrily over the flagstones. How anyone could find comfort enough to sleep, with icy shards cutting at every promise of warm flesh peeking from under insufficient covers, is a mystery to Crowley. 

His teeth snap at the cold. He isn’t even sure that whatever has happened in the last hour isn't just a feeble dream. Somehow the darkness seems reality-erasing, slathering the exchange with a fair amount of haziness as if he were tripping along the line of wakefulness. It’d be a lie if Crowley said he’d been expecting Aziraphale to accept his offer so easily. 

For the ‘yes’ to pour forth so readily. 

Logic and everything else aside, to consort with a demon is probably the biggest written ‘no’ in these people’s ledgers, and Crowley’s still wondering what could be the reason behind Aziraphale’s acceptance. Although, Crowley has an inkling. 

He’d watched Aziraphale for a day, hoping and waiting for the right time to slink into his presence. Saw him hunched over codices, helping the novices with mixing their inks, sharpening their quills, and scraping their vellums with pumices and chalk. Smiling all the way through, even when he’d had to carry an older monk with a sour face to the table at supper, the same table he, for some reason, hadn’t sat at. Crowley the demon didn’t have much experience with people except for fucking, moaning, and choking around the stretch of different cocks, taking advantage of the long-held lust simmering in men of the cloth to feed himself, easy prey and all that. Which, yeah, probably isn’t the strongest sampling to build opinions on, and yet… 

And yet. 

He’s seen a lot of humans in the hundred years he’s been fucking his merry way about, and Aziraphale seems  _ painfully _ different. Something in his eyes, perhaps. A gleam drawn clear under the silver moonlight, a gentle edge that sits at the corners of each crinkle and line, easing around his mouth when he smiles. Open, vulnerable, terribly fragile. But there’s something else too, a sharp, steely thing flowing underneath that told Crowley that, as unassuming as Aziraphale might look, he isn’t stupid. Far from it, actually.

His ‘yes’ had been a calculated convenience, and the contradiction is intriguing. 

Crowley suspects Aziraphale would’ve seen through any lies he might have lobbed at him. 

He turns his head to the center of the small room as if it’s a lodestone, gaze falling on the bed where Aziraphale rests. He can see the soft outline of his face, the graceful curve of that little pert nose, the pink on his cheeks, lashes fluttering in sleep. Here, brushed by the dim light, it’s impossible to deny the beauty of him, the softness of his finespun hair, the smooth quality of round edges, so unlike Crowley. 

Those lips. 

He clenches his hand at the memory. The realization snags against his mind, and sends Crowley back to the fear of living in that terrifying second when he had to admit that,  _ oh fuck, it’s happening again _ . He hasn’t felt like this  _ once,  _ except for that terrible first chance, the one that has brought him to where he is, that  _ changed _ him into the thing he is now. When too much trust that had granted him a quick, swift passage to Hell.

Unaware of the fact that the man he'd invited to his bed, had allowed inside his body, had been Lucifer himself. 

And up until now it’d been easy to ignore that nudge. After all, most humans are unprepossessing masses of flesh and limbs with no redeeming qualities. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. 

But something in Aziraphale has made Crowley walk again over the tangled latticework of his memories, miss the time when he was human, and wish that he could linger and stay, easing himself into sheets that, for once, wouldn’t seem like a blank canvas for sin, and let himself be kissed. And he hates it. Hates how it rips and tears the edges of his control, of the perfect balance he has learned to establish with every push and pull and flex of his muscles. And he shouldn’t let himself entertain the idea, to think about chasing the ripple of elusive possibilities, to ponder the myriad dangerous  _ ifs _ . He doesn’t have time for that. He shouldn’t have had to stay longer than one night.

His existence is defined by the fitful beat of hours rolling quietly by. He has nothing else, and it suits him fine. 

But now…

Crowley should’ve suspected it. Since the moment he’d set eyes on Aziraphale, he’d known things were not going to be so easy. There’d been a soft sort of uneasiness tugging at his stomach, an odd, warm feeling, like the ghost-memory of something lost. 

Crowley fixes his gaze on Aziraphale again, there, painted in a wash of silver and shadows. The covers are worn out and thin, not long enough to cover the broad expanse of his shoulders, the thickness of his arms. It doesn’t help to deter Crowley from the dangerous game of guessing how his muscles would curve as they play down to his chest, down the generous swell of his stomach. To imagine the soft angles of his thighs and the way his skin would glisten with sweat...

… It's almost impossible not to think about it, once the first sliver of an idea has drilled into Crowley's mind.

Crowley knows celibacy has its ways to be thwarted, he knows the many ways  _ want _ can be parsed through reason. He’s seen it enough to realize holy visions and sinful frenzy dig deep enough to feed from the same well, and these monks, these priests with their ardorous lust for righteousness, are particularly weak for it. A small nudge is usually enough.

The question barges uninvited. 

Does Aziraphale touch himself? He must, Crowley thinks, licking his lips. Does he take himself in hand, shyly at first, with the sort of quiet guilt of his class, biting down his moans, biting his red-stung lips to stifle his whines? Crowley fixes his eyes on the steady rise of Aziraphale's chest, imagining how his breath would become ragged, frantic, with each stroke given, and his throat catches on a groan. 

He can feel the ripple of a shudder working its way down his spine, feel how his thighs are tensing, his cock pulsing between his legs. But his hands remain at his sides, even if the pull to seek lower is almost unbearable. 

His thoughts wander, unshackled, and every breath is almost a soft huff. 

Does Aziraphale dig his fingers into the meat of his thigh, curling a hand around the red-hot hardness of his cock, watching his slick make a mess of his pubes while he works himself in quick, steady pumps? Or is he thorough and slow, teasing himself until he's balancing on the edge, but not giving in? Aziraphale is a virgin, Crowley can tell, of course he can. But that doesn't mean Aziraphale hasn't  _ thought _ about it, and the idea is so absurdly arousing, so beautifully devastating that Crowley's cock twitches, fully erect now, jutting out obscenely. He doesn't always manage to like it. Sex is usually only a means to an end, but right now his want thrums low, rough, as if scratching his veins, too tight and hot in his skin, making his blood roar in his ears. 

Does Aziraphale imagine himself sliding slowly into the tight clench of a body, one, two thick inches at a time, the drag slow and scorchingly satisfying? Breaching the yielding, hot, first resistance of a furled rim, until he's sucked to the base, every inch of him settling in a tight fit inside of someone like, say…  _ Crowley _ ? Would he like that? 

Crowley's arsehole clenches at the thought. At the promise of being full, of being stretched wide open around Aziraphale while he works himself deeper and deeper inside, his hands broad and thick, spreading Crowley's thighs wider for himself. He'd push gently, he  _ would be _ gentle, and Crowley would feel the plush pressure of Aziraphale's stomach, warm against his lower back, Aziraphale's pubes brushing the sparse swell of his arse, his breath hot on his neck. And he would feel wonderful inside Crowley, giving small shivery noises that wouldn't be able to mask how badly he would need to bury himself, over and over and over, into the tight heat of Crowley's body. 

It would be sloppy, artless, a mess of movement and wet sounds, because Aziraphale would not be able to last long, driving in faster, harder, chasing his relief, his moans cracking like reed at the back of his throat, until he would finally spill inside Crowley, thighs quivering, luscious body shivering in an orgasm that would seem endless. Crowley would make sure of that. 

Fuck, Crowley's so hard it's painful. A ragged breath shoves out of his mouth, cutting through the hush of the room. He commands his cock to behave because he doesn’t need this right now. 

It's ridiculous. Frankly, stupid. 

He needs to regain his focus and set it on their Arrangement, to be able to  _ fucking _ leave. Keep his movements controlled. Mapped. He can't allow himself a turn out of tempo, a phrase, a word off script. 

He's already fallen once, and he still remembers that split second, that precise point in time when he'd thought he could feel free and suspended, and he had  _ trusted _ . It had been for naught. He'd tumbled down and over - _ pain _ \- trying to reach that elusive thing, that long-sought feeling, almost there, barely touched but never caught.

But there had been nothing to cling to, nothing but ash in his mouth. Nothing but pain below.

Crowley sneaks a glance up at Aziraphale…

He doesn’t think he could go through anything like that again, falling for someone for whom he'd be nothing but something to toss away afterwards. 

_ Where the fuck are all these thoughts even coming from? _

A pretty face is all it takes to throw him off axis and make him feel like a milkmaid, apparently.  _ Satan _ . 

Crowley shakes his head and lets himself bask in the rolling sweep of air coming up from the cloister garth, feeling much like a smoldering wreckage, like the dying embers of a stake. There’s still the pressing matter of securing his survival, before anything else. 

He's going to starve if he doesn't get someone to feed on soon. It'd been a pity to realize how repulsed Aziraphale was at the idea. And despite whatever Downstairs says, Crowley prefers for his partners to be enthusiastic about it, which is fairly easy. No one has said ‘no’ to him until now _._

So yeah, Aziraphale’s ‘no’ stings a bit, because the idea of letting Aziraphale fuck him against every flat or vertical surface available is rather fucking tempting, for reasons Crowley won't examine in detail. 

But he has never forced himself on anyone, and he isn't about to start now. He's seen how others operate, tempting and seducing their victims until they're barely more than limp bodies with no light behind their eyes. 

Disgusting. There's no finesse in that. They must choose. Choose  _ him _ , if only as a sad pantomime. 

And Aziraphale doesn't deserve that.

What he deserves is for Crowley to help him find out who  _ the fuck _ wants him dead, and that's it. Not two ways about that. 

He'll be free, no strings attached. Yep. 

Crowley tries to tame the inferno roaring inside him, thrashing in his head, building up into something wild in his blood. He sits at the austere table and settles for a semblance of sleep. 

The bed looks warm at his side. His fingers shift into claws, catching at the coarseness of the robe he wears. 

He looks at Aziraphale and sets his shoulders tight. 

Fuck it all. He doesn’t  _ need _ absolution. 

* * *

When Aziraphale wakes up, it's with a startled swoop in his stomach as if he'd been falling. He hasn't dreamt like this in years. There are glimpses of faces, of things that writhe, half obscured by shadows, daring mouths that are not human open like gashes, like supurant wounds. Odd things, unfinished, as if they had dwelt at the edge of his thoughts all night long, fled the moment he woke up.

It takes him a second to remember. He's lived here far too long not to recognize the carved creatures he sees everyday in the flashes of his dreams, the terrors that inhabit the walls of the  _ aedificium _ as all his brothers, and him as well. 

The covers rustle when he shifts legs that are partially cold-numb, and he blinks, before his gaze settles on the edges of darkness, on the not-at-all familiar figure sitting hunched at his small table. 

_ Crowley _ .

The fire of his hair spills wildly over his back, like the rich vermilion of the illuminated pages Aziraphale knows quite well, and he has his face buried in the cradle of his arms on the table. Apparently he's asleep. 

So it hadn't been a dream, then. 

Aziraphale's heart is high, beats brimful, not quite knowing how to decant itself for fear or awe. Is it true that all evil is horrid, the spawn of nightmares, as it's always portrayed? He looks at Crowley, stark beauty and sharp lines, feeling a bit like trespassing, and has to answer himself ‘no, not at least in this case.’ 

But he isn't fool enough to believe all vile things can present themselves foul. There's much room to hide abominable sparks inside oneself. 

The Devil is, after all, an inveterate liar, and if it isn't  _ him _ , sitting before Aziraphale, at least it's one of his servants.

It doesn't stop him feeling the whisper of guilt fanning out wide inside his chest, watching Crowley coiled in on himself, shoeless, sitting there, his tunic swirled at the hem by wisps of cold air. 

It's certainly not a comfortable position for anyone to sleep in, and Aziraphale swallows down a scalding gulp of saliva while his hands press on the sleep-warm mattress of his bed. Big enough for two.

_ Good Lord _ . 

Would it be too forward? 

It'd be nothing but a generous offer, he tells himself, a display of mercy upon one who needs it most. 

_ Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. _

Mercy _. _

After all, isn’t that the lesson? To give, and give, and give of himself until he's spent?

He swipes his tongue over his chapped lips and stands up. 

Foolish. Reckless. He can't allow himself to think like that. 

It's almost time for the call to Matins, and he needs to settle things with Crowley before he can start his day. Aziraphale swiftly pulls his habit over the tunic he wears underneath and ties it with his cord.

He makes his way to where Crowley is still immobile, lax, too easy to harm in deep slumber, and Aziraphale wonders why has he trusted him enough to allow himself to let his guard down. It'd be easy, too easy, to hurt him. A heavy blow to the head. A stab. A call to his brethren to take Crowley away.

Aziraphale’s heart quickens, the pattering aching-loud against his ribs and he feels his breath swishing ragged in the silence. 

He  _ could _ , Aziraphale  _ could _ hurt him, but even before the idea forms and warps itself into something coherent, he knows he won't. 

But he also could… he could… 

_ A kiss _ , Aziraphale thinks, feeling his cheeks warm as if he has drunk the wine from the Abbot's table. Just a kiss, there on the high side of Crowley's cheek, pressed against the skin brushed by the silvery strip of moonlight, soft, so soft he wouldn’t even disturb the sleeping demon.

His gaze flickers, a hazy unfocus for a short moment. Aziraphale huffs. 

Apparently there's a steady flow of temptation crackling in the air even when Crowley's asleep, taunting and unrelenting, swirling around the room like morning fog, pushing Aziraphale in an unbecoming way. Better not dwell there. He grabs his rosary and places it around his neck.

Aziraphale reaches a hand that hovers for the span of a too-long second over the curve of Crowley's shoulder, and the skin around his chest smoulders, weighing him down. He finally shakes his eyes away from Crowley and decides against it, tugging his hand back inside the folds of his black habit. 

"Crowley," he whispers. It's not more than a soughing sort of sound. He doesn't want to risk being heard by the wakers that should be walking among the dormitories ready to ring a bell. "Crowley, wake up."

Slowly, Crowley stirs, raising his head until he levels his gaze up to Aziraphale’s face. The sight chases his thoughts away. Aziraphale had remembered, of course he had, but somehow he'd pushed the idea down with the brewing fear, so the full weight of Crowley's beautiful face had fizzed out in his sleep-addled brain until he'd convinced himself it hadn't been entirely real. 

Of course he had been  _ wrong _ . The dark backdrop of the grey-dark stone does nothing but call attention to the glowing splendor of the demon before him. There's warmth buffeting against his cheeks, his limbs, as if facing into a faraway summer, and in the shifting light of the now-low moon, it's as if he’s discovering new, enthralling angles of him. 

His tongue sticks to his palate, mouth bone-dry. 

“Angel,” Crowley roughs out. He blinks owlishly and squints. “What time is it?”

“Close to Matins,” Aziraphale blurts out, a tad breathlessly. 

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns. "Not quite yet dawn."

"Your lot really doesn't believe in the concept of sleep, do they?" Crowley stretches, with an unhurried, lazy roll of shoulders and spine and rearranges in his chair. "What do you want?"

Business. Business, he thinks, sinking a canine into his lower lip. 

"I need to leave soon, and I was wondering..." Aziraphale dithers. 

"What?"

Aziraphale sits on the edge of his bed. "Have you thought about how we are going to find what you're looking for?"

"To be honest, not much," Crowley shrugs. 

"What have you been doing all night then?" Aziraphale blinks. "Don't tell me you've been sleeping, because I saw you standing there by the window, still as a statue."

To Aziraphale's surprise, Crowley grunts ever so slightly, his gaze scurrying away from Aziraphale's face. There's the faint hint of a blush on his cheeks Aziraphale can see very clearly, thanks to the moonlight. 

"Didn't know I was going to do  _ all _ the planning here," Crowley says, drawling his words, with color still high on his face. "What are you going to add to this partnership, then?"

"Oh, don't be daft, you silly thing," Aziraphale tuts, and belatedly realizes perhaps he shouldn't be treating the demon as if he were an old friend. But the fact is that this is by far the friendliest exchange he's had in years. Decades. Probably in his entire life, and it's oddly warming in a way that's terrifying, and he suspects quite dangerous too. There's a charade being played, the mock-up of closeness brought by convenience, and he would do well to remember that. "I was just asking," he adds, softly, and his stomach twists, meanly. 

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, nonchalantly, unaware of Aziraphale's inner turmoil. "Well, if you really want to know, there's just one thing that occurs to me right now."

A second ticks by. 

"Well?" Aziraphale presses, struggling to focus his attention on the matter at hand. "Spit it out."

"Right, calm your horses. The way I see it, the quickest way to find what I'm looking for is to know who wants you dead."

"Simple enough," Aziraphale considers.

"Yeah, so, I'm asking you, do you have any idea who in this blessed place could want that?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I don't–"

"Yes, but think harder, Angel." Aziraphale can see whisper-thin lines around his eyes, can hear the earnest glaze in his voice, and it's impossible to miss how important this is for Crowley, how much he must want to  _ leave _ . It's expected, Aziraphale knows, but it doesn't stop that unfamiliar thing from twisting behind his ribs. He doesn't like it at all. "I don't think there could be a lot of people cross with you to the point of risking their souls just to see you pushing daisies, uh?" 

Aziraphale sets his teeth on his lower lip, hurling his thoughts back into the matter at hand.

"Anyone," Crowley follows. "Someone you pushed during supper, someone who didn't get the book they wanted, someone whom you robbed of his morsel?"

"I'd never do such a thing!" Aziraphale bristles. "And everything you're saying is just ridiculous. There's no one here who could wish me harm," a thought races through Aziraphale's dizzy mind, "except…"

It  _ has _ to be. The books are the only reason that makes sense. If someone suspects Aziraphale is close to finding them, they could be panicking, knowing he would expose them to the Abbot and they would have to face excommunication or something far worse. 

"Except? C'mon, you're killing me, Angel," Crowley says.

"There are books missing," Aziraphale whips out.

Crowley blinks, which looks unnatural, somehow. "That… was not what I was expecting. Are you telling me, someone wants you dead because of some books?"

"It's the only thing I can think of," Aziraphale says. He's wringing his hands, his forefingers and thumbs suffering the extreme flex of his worry. 

"And you're absolutely sure," Crowley continues, eyes flicking down to Aziraphale's hands.

"Positive."

"No chance some monk took them to their room and is running late on the return?"

"It isn't allowed to take books back to the dormitories," Aziraphale says, slightly haughty. As the Librarian, he  _ knows  _ where his books are at all times. "Reading time is spent in common areas."

Crowley humms, and a sly smile curls his lips. "I think Albert the Great here disagrees with you," he says, and Aziraphale can hear the tease in his voice while Crowley picks up the book from the table. 

Aziraphale's blood rises to his cheeks in a forceful stroke. "I- I-"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's different!" Aziraphale gruffs. "I'm the Librarian and I  _ can't _ read all day, and this book is just so  _ intriguing _ that I couldn't–"

Crowley's soft chuckle breaks the speed of Aziraphale's tirade. "Relax, I'm not judging you. It  _ is _ a good book, a bit dense at times, but interesting."

"Have you–" Aziraphale stops, awe-struck, and tries again. It's  _ absurd _ . Ludicrous. Demons  _ don't _ read. It goes against the natural order of things. To pursue knowledge is to bring one closer to God, to seek the principles of nature is to seek God, to revel in the marvel of his creation,  _ isn't it?  _ "Have you read  _ De Vegetabilis _ ?" 

"Yeah," Crowley says then, cutting his floundering thoughts short. "All seven of them."

"Did you like them?" Aziraphale asks, and somehow the question seems far more important than just the plain meaning in those four words. _Did you like them? Are you more than what I believe?_ _What are you, really? Will you tell me why I feel like this?_ It's an unnatural, foreign thought that rushes to the forefront of his mind, something that tells him it isn't wise to question too much, to seek answers for things that bend out of order. _But what's wrong in knowing?_

_ The truth will set you free.  _

"I did," Crowley says then, tight, voice crowded with many things Aziraphale doesn't understand. "I really er, really liked plants."

"Liked?" Aziraphale asks, clinging to the tense that doesn't escape him. 

"It was a long time ago." Crowley's face shifts into something blank, but his  _ eyes _ . Aziraphale can't help but feel his eyes look too soulful. Large, sad, not warm but frost-glass, able to catch the light in a way Aziraphale doesn't like at all. 

Silence creeps around them, pushing in from the corners. 

"So, these books, what about them?" Crowley asks at last. "Do you think they'll steal more of them?"

Aziraphale's mind is still reeling, but he nods, "Yes. There are six books in total with jeweled covers, and at this point three are missing. Whoever is doing this, I'm sure they will be back for the rest."

Crowley stands from his chair, unfurling the long line of his body in a calculated movement that speaks of control of sinews and joints, of blood and muscles. It reminds Aziraphale of the mastery an artist holds over their instruments, and he suspects it must be no different. Even covered from his neck down to his calves, the sight of Crowley is breathtaking and frankly alluring. 

Surely his own body must seem lacklustre and dull in comparison. 

"Can I visit?" Crowley asks, pulling Aziraphale back to their predicament. "The Library, I mean. I think I could maybe see something you didn't."

"I… suppose? Would have to get you a habit in case someone sees us and it'll have to be at night. Not today. Tomorrow."

"Yep, sounds like a plan."

Aziraphale manages the first honest smile in weeks, and sees Crowley smile in return. It's a sight that overwhelms the silence, the darkness, the weight of the solitude of long years. It shouldn't be like this. 

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth slant a little. 

"There's something else I'd like to discuss with you," Crowley follows.

"Sure."

"I need to feed." Aziraphale doesn't fail to notice how he sets his shoulders, how he clenches his jaw.

"I beg your pardon?"

Crowley huffs in clear exasperation, sitting again on his chair. "I need to feed, I can't live on bread and butter, as nice as they might be."

"Are you talking about...?" His question peters into silence. Of course he is, Aziraphale tells himself, and prays Crowley won't notice the crook of his frown, the tight-fisted hand on his knee. Because it's absurd how the mere thought makes something dark brew inside him, how the idea yanks at his stomach, curls around his heart, and it burns.

He suspects it's all part of Crowley's  _ charm _ . 

"Yeah, I need someone to fuck," Crowley says bluntly, almost spitting the words out.

Heat pools between Aziraphale's legs. He croaks, "And you're suggesting…?"

Aziraphale realizes he's holding his breath, and he isn't really quite sure what he's expecting. A yes? A no? Something inside him lurches, violently and with intent.

" _ You _ ?" Crowley lifts his brows and his tone cuts Aziraphale to the quick. "Of course not. You said no, remember?" And then he adds, "I may be a demon, but I'm not a monster."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does, because what Crowley is suggesting is the sensible thing to do, but Aziraphale swallows a gulp that sears the line of his throat. 

"Plenty of monks to choose from here," Crowley says, as casually as talking about the weather. 

Aziraphale has no right. No right at all, but the thought of Crowley's long legs wrapped around another man's waist, open and wanting, pulses like a raw, throbbing wound. 

"I can't let you do that. You can't–"  _ What? He can't what?  _ And before Aziraphale can catch himself, it spills, "I won't let you corrupt other monks. If you need to do it, you'll do it with me."

There's a flicker of something guarded in Crowley's gaze before he says, "Don't be stupid. You don't want to, you said as much."

"Yes, but think about it. We can't risk them telling the Abbot about you, or for the rumor to spread that there's a demon in our midst," Aziraphale reasons, fighting down a violent blush, and he sounds as calm and collected as he can manage. 

"How very sacrificial of you," Crowley says caustically. "I still have a few days before the matter is pressing. I'll come up with something. But just to be clear, I am  _ not  _ doing this with you unwilling."

_ Unwilling _ . Is he? He suspects he isn't, but the fact Crowley will be unyielding enough to brush his offer aside, to respect his wishes, makes something weird writhe in his chest. 

Isn't he supposed to be  _ evil _ ?

Outside, a bell rings, and Aziraphale quickly presses a finger to his lips, looking at Crowley. 

" _ Benedicamus domino _ ," comes a voice from the outside. 

" _ Deo gratias _ ," Aziraphale answers. 

They hold their breaths until the clear ringing dissolves in the night. 

"Are you going to stay here all day?" Aziraphale finally asks. 

"No other place I could go, now is there?" Crowley shrugs. "I may catch up on my sleep."

"You can use the bed if you want to, I don't mind." Aziraphale stands and traipses to the door. "I won't be back until dusk," he says without looking back, trying to push the image of Crowley sprawled on his bed out of his mind. 

Aziraphale's hand hovers over the door knob. 

"Take care, Angel."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is still shaken about Crowley's request while a tangible threat appears. Everything seems very obscure and realizes there's no one who he can trust but Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to HatKnitter for the beta ❤️, and to TawnyOwl95, Jenanigans1207, hanap, Caedmon and Nadzieja for all the cheering, encouragement and friendship 💜.

There isn't a shard of light when Aziraphale reaches the church. The wind moans its frost-edged bite around the garth, making his robes billow like some sort of cloud. Astray. Lost. 

Aziraphale hurries his steps and slips into the line of monks that flows into the nave and to the choir in a seamless mass of black. Not a sound. Not a drop of color of skin or hair from under the pulled cloaks.

He has never felt quite as taken as many of his brothers by the holiness of this Sanctum, by the sacred warmth of faith. And he has learned ways, through the years, to keep himself awake through the prayers. A concealed prick of his fingers under the wool, scratching the skin. Trying to focus his gaze on the altar before him, in the lines of the apse, sidestepping the foggy darkness that seems to rise from the slabs and suck him into slumber.

Not today, though. 

He can feel the thumping pulse in his temples like an accusatory drum that muffles the droning of the responsory. His breath, rasping along his throat. 

A soft murmur grows around him in a dark lilt.

_ Domine labia mea aperies et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam. _

But his lips aren't opening to praise the Lord, but rather to savor the ghost of a fever-dream. 

He’s unleashed a demon in this place, and from the first moment he set a foot into the church he’s been silently awaiting some sort of retribution, a swift clout of heavenly rage marking him as a traitor, smiting him on the spot. Because, what if Crowley decided to leave? To roam free amidst his brothers and  _ tempt _ them? His heart outpaces the rush of his brain, beating heavily against the confinement of his ribs, throbbing painfully in his chest like a day-old bruise. 

Aziraphale can’t curb the thought. Crowley needs to  _ feed _ . 

His gaze sweeps the bodies pressed against each other in prayer, hints of faces emerging from hoods – lines of noses, jaws, and distinct hues of hair. He watches the strips of skin peeking from under the sleeves – thick and narrow wrists, and hands of every shape and shade, the gnarled ones of the old, the flexible ones of the young.

Aziraphale blinks, and a flash barges in, unbarred. An angular face, beautiful beyond measure. 

_ Anyone _ . Crowley could have anyone.

The thread of images is impossible to resist, and the pull drags Aziraphale down to imagine, to almost  _ see  _ the demon sprawled on a cot, anonymous hands roughly digging into narrow hips, fisting handfuls of fire-like hair. Around him, the responsory is ending and Aziraphale garbles the end of the psalm, not quite managing to form the words as he should, between broken bursts of air. It’s Crowley in his mind, with his head shoved onto a pillow, biting and clawing at the sheets while the contours of a black habit push into him from behind, spearing him open, spreading him wide and thrusting into the pliant flex of his body. Taking from him, and giving him as well, an arc, a flood of pleasure that could sustain him. 

And Aziraphale can almost see, almost _hear_ Crowley whining, a sweat-damp wreck, asking the _unnamed_ _man_ for more. 

Something bitter, something cold and sharp, cuts the line of his mouth, of his throat, makes anger rise and build to bursting, even though he knows quite well that this is terribly out of place. 

His cock stirs, and he can feel the beating tendrils of his  _ want _ rushing, pulsing, sewn into the hem of his habit, and sweeping up him entirely. It swats at him like a summer-born heatwave, and he’s sure his cheeks are flushed beyond pink. It’s impossible not to think about Crowley sinking down on a cock, rolling his hips, encouraging the nameless figure below him to  _ touch _ him, to glide fingers along his chest, his sides, his waist. And sink nails there. 

And it could be him, Aziraphale thinks, tossing the venom of jealousy aside. It could. It  _ could _ . Fingers gentling on Crowley’s skin, pricking at the warmth, at a softness he’s never felt. Opening his mouth, and dragging his tongue along Crowley’s lips.

If Crowley  _ lets _ him.

_ Lord _ . 

His hot breath fogs the dew-thick air, winding its way up to the rafters, joined with the heartfelt prayers. Tainting. Sinful. Aziraphale wants Crowley so desperately, his ‘ _ no’  _ weighs like a millstone around his neck.  _ Not unwilling _ , he'd said, but he also hadn't seemed thrilled at the idea. And why would he? It's only a job. 

It's his  _ job _ , and Aziraphale is being frighteningly naïve. Is he ready to condemn himself? It surely couldn't go unpunished. What's this wicked shift within himself that is pushing aside his first resistance? His will is cracking like stained glass, showing him the colorful fractals of his hidden desires. 

Aziraphale sets his jaw, grinding his molars until there’s a foreign kind of static running in his ears. And he knows, he can absolutely  _ tell  _ that the greed, the need to have Crowley for his own, to place his hands on that stunning display of flesh, is nothing but a demonic inclination he can't shake loose. 

Is this how the burning of the flesh feels? The ardent fires of sin? Like coals lit and ground at the base of his stomach until the smoke rises and rises, suffocating him, one gulp of stinging breath at a time?

Burning at a stake of his own doing. 

No. No. He must be forgiven. He isn't doing this for himself. He's protecting the books, his brothers, the abbey, and the demon is his only  _ ally _ . Keeping  _ him _ alive is his duty.

Around him, the clamor of voices swirls and morphs, reaching every corner of the stalls and mixing with the burning incense of the golden thurible a monk swings at the edge of the altar. There are no faces in the sea of virtue, indistinguishable shadows everywhere. 

And it dawns on Aziraphale. The person who wants him dead must be here, chanting with the same fervor as every other monk, hiding his grim, foul nature from everyone. 

From God, as well, if he lets this happen.

He flinches when a night walker brushes the wool at the side of his habit, walking between the stalls, and Aziraphale's eyes flicker back and forth between all the silhouettes that now seem to loom over him like the stone-carved, mutilated horrors from the walls. 

The Antiphona comes and goes, and swiftly the service is ending, the lines of monks now leaving the church in obedient array. 

Pale sunlight floods the patio through the streaks of clouds, glinting off the cracked ice of the shallow pond at the center of the cloister garth. Air is coming from the outer reaches of the abbey with a tinge of salve from far off, remote lands, from  _ Ultima Thule  _ in Aziraphale's dreams. And perhaps, if only like this, he gets to visit, to know spaces otherwise denied to him. 

Aziraphale is almost startled when a hand curls around his elbow just as he's crossing the doors. 

"Lost in the clouds as always, aren't you?" someone says and Aziraphale turns just to see a leering smile on the face of Sandalphon, a monk he doesn't like at all.

Aziraphale shakes his arm free. "Beg your pardon?"

"No wonder you let those books get lost. Stolen." Sandalphon's face bristles with a dark sense of glee, Aziraphale can tell. It's there in the gash of his too-wide smile, in the slanted line of his brows. 

Shards of splintered ice dig deep in Aziraphale's spine, his chest. "How do you know about the books?

Sandalphon ignores him with a vicious snarl. "Told the Abbot you weren't suited for this task. It should've been me. Not you."

"Brother Raphael chose me," Aziraphale rushes out, quietly. At his side the line of novices make their way, led by their teacher. "I was trained by him."

"As was I," Sandalphon counters. "He didn't choose anyone, he didn't have time. It was the Abbot who put you there, and now he's realizing how poor a job you were always meant to do." He laughs. "Not for long, though. Soon the Abbot will see how unfit you are to take care of the Library."

He turns and leaves without giving Aziraphale time to reply. 

Far away, Aziraphale can see the servants of the abbey dashing from one place to the other, the  _ aedificium _ beginning to stir, easing into life. Everyone rushes around him, unaware of the panic that spins through him, of how badly his hands are shaking. 

He stays there, watching the walls soak in the washed-up colors of the cold dawn, until he regains his balance somewhat, and goes to have breakfast.

Could it be Sandalphon, the one behind the whole ordeal? How had he known about the books? Was it common knowledge already?

He certainly hadn't seemed surprised to see Aziraphale alive and breathing, and if he was the one who summoned Crowley, he should have been.

Perhaps he is a good liar.

Aziraphale walks swiftly, burying his hands in his habit, his breath swirling before him like plumes in the frost air. Every step he takes over the gleaming flagstones drags him down, carving an indent in his core. And it's fear, bitumen-heavy, that it seeps through. 

He cranes his neck more than once to look over his shoulder, a cold sweat breaking when he sees a fellow Brother walking about. 

When he reaches his spot at the table, he's worn thin, and he knows the rest of the day won't pass quickly enough. 

* * *

He's been hunched over his desk for at least ten peaceful minutes, trying to think, leafing through his ledger as if it held the answer to his questions. 

It would be far easier if he weren't called, every turn of ten pages, by one of the novices, still learning to adjust their vellums, to mix the folium ink in a way that doesn't stain. More than once, Aziraphale finds himself snapping at them, and apologizing hurriedly after.

Yes, he's worried. But he also can't stop thinking about Crowley. Can he actually trust the demon's word? What if he's been played for a fool? More than anything, he needs to return to his room, see if he's still there, and raze his doubts to the ground. 

"Brother Aziraphale?" Brother Newton, his helper, clears his throat at his side. 

Aziraphale tsks and swivels his gaze up. "Yes?"

Newton nods in the direction of the door, where Abbot Gabriel is traipsing between the tables, barely paying attention to the work done. 

Aziraphale sits straighter, closes the ledger, and crosses his hands in front of him in attentive submission.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel says, standing in front of him. Always smiling, always ample and giving. "How's work going today?"

"Q-quite well, lots of improvement on the book the Cardinal recently requested." Aziraphale shifts in his chair. He sinks his nails in one palm to restrain himself from squirming under that keen gaze. "It must be done, for when you visit Rome."

"Perfect." Gabriel hums. "You look awfully pale. Are you feeling well?"

"Why, yes, yes I am, but I guess–"

"Perhaps you should retire to your room earlier today. You've worked hard, Aziraphale." Gabriel smiles, but the glint of his white teeth doesn't reach his eyes. "Go on, I'm sure Brother Newton here can manage to close the Library and the scriptorium. Isn't that right, Newton?"

Newton scuffles closer. "Yes, yes, of course."

Gabriel's smile widens, and he pats Aziraphale in the shoulder. 

"Pass through the kitchens and ask them for something you can take to your cell."

It's not a request, but an order. Aziraphale levers himself up and flashes a small smile in Gabriel's direction. 

"Alright. I think that would suit me well," he says. And then he turns to Newton, his back to Gabriel. "Here," and he shoves the ledger in his hands. "Don't let this out of your sight until you close. Don't give it to anyone." He clears his throat, "Absolutely  _ anyone _ ."

Newton nods and presses the book against his chest, his pale fingers curling around the spine. 

Aziraphale leaves slowly, glancing behind him to see if Gabriel is staying. What if he wanted to send him away to press the ledger out of Newton’s hands? But what for? To look for the locations of the rest of the jeweled codices? What need would he have? It's common knowledge that Gabriel's family comes from wealth, and they're actively supporting his next goal – to be appointed external cardinal by the Pope. Power and money, a web that ties tightly and neatly around any target. 

He's lingering at the door when Gabriel brushes past him. Leaving empty-handed and still smiling. 

"Aziraphale!" he booms. "What are you doing here? Go to your room. Rest for a change."

He strides away without giving Aziraphale time to answer.

* * *

In the swirl of chaos, Aziraphale skirts around the suggestion to pass through the kitchens, focused on slinking into the laundry area to  _ borrow _ a spare habit. 

Once he has it, he dashes through the silent hallways, glad to see the sun still high, and swirling his wrists to shake off the numbness of the cold and cramp from the tight grip around quills.

He doesn't want to admit it, but his insides are rife with trepidation, doubts slashing viciously across his mind while he tries to parry them as he can. By the time he reaches his door, he's sweating, having run the last few yards. 

Aziraphale yanks the door open and there, sitting in a chair, reading calmly, is Crowley. 

And he looks… so peaceful, so undeniably  _ normal _ , that Aziraphale reminds himself sternly he -  _ it _ \- isn't human. But there's not a trace of  _ monster _ in him, except for the roll of his yellow eyes, his claws hidden for the time being. 

It can't be denied, the way Aziraphale's heart beats wildly, stomach flipping awkwardly at the sight of him. Limned by the scarce light, crowned with rivers of fire that make Aziraphale wonder how the strands would feel slipping through his fingers, his eyes golden with the touch of the sun, looking every bit as gorgeous as he'd been in the dark. Perhaps even moreso. 

The room is tidied, more than likely by Crowley's hand, and he's reading a book, as inconsequential and mundane as it seems, as Aziraphale has done many times, and he can't help but wonder why he's been given this fate. Isn't there balance in the world? A sort of undercurrent of fairness? Because someone so nice, so good, should not have been pushed over the line of damnation. But perhaps Crowley's kindness is nothing but an act, a fib. After all, they've known each other for only one miserable day. 

Not enough time to learn to judge someone. 

Aziraphale is still standing on his doorway, captured by his thoughts, when Crowley sets the book down and  _ smiles _ . 

"Hey, there, Angel. Isn't it early?"

Heat laps at Aziraphale's insides, swirling up his legs, his cheeks. That smile isn't false, he can tell. Living among these walls has taught him to recognize true flashes of affection, as scarce as they are. 

He wants to step closer, to show Crowley a smile of his own, but the truth is that he's still bound by the draffs of wariness, of knowing he's dealing with a  _ demon _ . Crucial fact. 

He swats at the niggling need to  _ reach _ , sits on the bed, and places the black habit nearby. 

"I was dismissed. The Abbot thought I wasn't feeling well."

Crowley frowns. "Aren't you?"

"No," he says. "I mean, yes, I feel quite alright. I might have been lost in thought, that's all."

Crowley stares at him a little longer, with intent, and Aziraphale is close to betraying the miasma of doubts, of want, of utter chaos that swirls inside him. 

He sits very still. 

"You brought the habit," Crowley says finally. "Tonight, then?"

Aziraphale nods, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I believe it's time." He wrings his hands, thinking of Sandalphon, of his almost-threat, and something of the fear he'd felt outside the church must ooze out to his face, because Crowley's frown deepens. 

"Something wrong?" Crowley asks.

It's ridiculous to leave him in the dark. Crowley's the only one he can be sure of.

"I think– I think I was threatened today," Aziraphale says, finally.

Crowley's brows leap skywards, leaning forward with a sinuous move. "You  _ what _ ?"

Aziraphale huffs and in a succinct and clear way, tells Crowley everything about his encounter with Sandalphon. By the time he finishes, he can see a dangerous glint in Crowley's slitted pupils.

"How does he know about the books?" Crowley asks. 

"I– I don't know. He never answered."

A tongue that looks slightly too long flickers over Crowley's lip. "So, do you think he stole the books to make you look bad? To replace you?"

Aziraphale nods, "That's what I thought, yes."

"But why? What's so great about being the Librarian?" He probably sees the annoyance flickering in Aziraphale's face, because he adds, "I mean, no offence. I bet it's a good gig, fun as anything for anyone who likes to spend all day with their arse stuck to a chair." Crowley clears his throat. "I mean–"

"Oh, do shut up." Aziraphale rolls his eyes, "Just so you know, being the Librarian puts you one step closer to being eligible to be the new Abbot. It's a clear staircase to power."

"Oh, I see." Crowley regards him, from head to toe, but the appraisal seems almost technical and clean this time. It makes Aziraphale feel terribly unfit. "So, that's what you want? That's what you aim for? Being the next Abbot?"

"Of course not! I said a step closer, not automatic succession." And then he adds, softly, almost relenting, "Honestly, the books are the only thing I care about."

Crowley's eyes go huge and the light in his pupils softens. "That's… nice." Aziraphale can see the muscles of his long throat working around a swallow. "So, that means the one that's running the show right now–"

"Abbot Gabriel," Aziraphale supplies. 

"He was the prior Librarian?" Crowley continues. 

"As a matter of fact, no. His family helped him to get to where he is now, and given that the Librarian at the time, Brother Raphael–"

"Yeah, you mentioned that fellow."

"Yes, well, given that Brother Raphael didn't want to be the Abbot, Gabriel assumed the position without any complaints."

Crowley worries a lip between his teeth, and Aziraphale is viscerally tempted to find out the texture of them. They look unbearably  _ soft _ . He snaps out of his daze with a forceful scrape of nails in his palm. 

"What happened to him?" Crowley asks, unaware of his thoughts.  _ Thankfully _ . 

"Who?"

"Raphael."

Aziraphale lets out a shivery breath. After all, it still hurts a little to think about that time. Raphael had been his mentor. one of the few friends he'd ever had. "He died, not long ago, actually." 

"How?"

"One day he just… didn't wake up."

"Sudden, then."

"Yes, but…” 

"What?"

Aziraphale remembers those weeks, seeing Raphael steadily debilitating. His face ashen, his movements slow. Aziraphale still remembers that sad smile he'd shot in Aziraphale's direction at Complines, the night before he died. 

"Perhaps ‘sudden’ isn't the most accurate word. He, uh, he… got ill weeks prior, and it was just as if every day took a bit more out of him. He was weaker, he looked bad."

"But it was ruled as natural?"

Aziraphale blinks before steadying his gaze on Crowley. who has an odd expression.

"What else could it have been?"

"Nothing," Crowley drawls. "Probably nothing. Who declared it?"

"Ah, Uriel, the Brother that tends the Apothecary."

Crowley sits in silence, biting a nail, face clouded with something that dulls the bright gleam of his eyes, gaze lost to the middle distance. 

The room feels too cold, ominous somehow, as if hidden threats rest like inlays in the stone walls, never able to be removed. Aziraphale is alone. He always has been, but it bounces in his mind, the idea that if it wasn't for Crowley, this burden would have broken him to the core by now, and there's already a  _ thank you _ twirling along his tongue, forming in behind his palate before he realizes Crowley isn't doing this for him.

He will  _ leave _ , and Aziraphale needs to keep that in mind. 

"Have you eaten?" Crowley asks, then, and his voice is almost a mellow, soft thing.

Aziraphale shakes his head, as if trying to dissipate that listless sliver that had seemed to bury in his brain. "Uh, no, not yet."

Crowley snaps his fingers and, much like the night before, Aziraphale finds a platter full of food ready on the table. 

"Eat, then rest. We still have time before we have to go."

He offers the chair to Aziraphale and leaves him to eat in silence while he stands in front of one of the embrasures. Once done, Aziraphale lies down on the bed, leaving Crowley with a book back in his hands, and drifts off slowly, his lashes fluttering in between glimpses of red hair and pale skin. 

He sleeps soundly and dreamlessly. 

* * *

There's a moon tonight, and the stars are bright as well. Not that it matters, not that Crowley really cares. He doesn't get to.

The stars are not for him to admire anymore, with their oppressive, arrogant shine that marks the eternal hours he's been waiting. There'd been a time when watching them had been all he'd done in nights like these. 

But Crowley doesn't get the right anymore to find them beautiful, he doesn't get the right to have time to do something as simple as to watch them, always hiding as he is. He gets to find them useful, glaring at him while he does what he does best, and that's enough. While he exists in this loop of naught, using his body and letting himself be used…  _ no, not at all. _ He  _ chose _ to do this. 

Not that Lucifer had left him much of a choice, but still. One sliver of hope is always better than none. 

He sighs, a pervasive thing that rattles his throat, and admires himself already dressed in the benedictian black. An incubus in a habit. There's a thought.

A wry smile cuts across his face and he swirls to look at Aziraphale. He's been sleeping for a while now, and Crowley has had a hard time pulling his thoughts back to the book he'd decided to read. 

It's almost time to wake him up, and Crowley would be lying if he said he doesn't secretly crave to see those storm-fraught blue eyes looking at him again. As if the time didn't drag, but flew swiftly, when Aziraphale was awake. At least it's clear Aziraphale's first fear has passed. He isn't looking at Crowley as if he might slit his throat in his sleep, and he's oodles more relaxed while they talk. 

Crowley hasn't forgotten his offer, either. The offer to  _ take _ what he needs from him. 

A pulse of something hot flares in his stomach, making him prickly and light all over, and perhaps,  _ perhaps _ that means Aziraphale does find him attractive. But that isn't enough. Is it? It's supposed to be, though. In his line of work, at least. It's ruinous, positively demented to imagine anything else, to entertain even for a second that whatever nearness can sprout from this oddly-assembled partnership could be anything but convenient.

_ To not corrupt other monks _ , Aziraphale had said. And Crowley would do well to remember it, he thinks, feeling a wound-up cord tightening around his heart. 

This is absolutely fucking ridiculous.

What is he expecting from Aziraphale, really? A good fuck should be more than enough. Yeah, he's nice, and he isn't leering at Crowley every step of the way, making him feel one level above 'piece of meat,' which is frankly refreshing. But that doesn't give Crowley any right to let his brain wonder or his heart hope. 

_ Hope _ , what? He isn't even sure yet. What is certain is that he feels weaker with each hour that passes. But he isn't going to press the matter until the urgency leaves him no choice.

He should be waking him up, though, so he can stop thinking, dithering, fraying his edges open even wider with every awry turn of thought. 

Crowley closes the space to the bed and his hand hovers for a moment over the round line of Aziraphale's cheek, over the warmth he can feel starkly against the coldness of the room. He's beautiful like this, the faint light painting him silver, an angel with white-gold hair, but Crowley finds it's his gaze that stands out. That intelligent, discerning flicker of eyes, warm and steady. Something fixed, something genuine and well grounded…

… and he ought to stop thinking like that. 

He shakes his head.

"Hey, Angel, wake up."

Aziraphale stirs immediately, sitting almost ramrod straight in seconds. He blinks, settling his eyes finally on Crowley.

"Crowley," he says, the words coming out sleep-rough. "How long did I sleep?"

"Not long, but I think it's time. I've heard a lot of doors bang shut in the last half hour."

Aziraphale quickly stands and presses a finger to his lips, opening his door. 

Silence. 

"Yes, I think this is the hour. Better not waste time. Are you ready?"

Crowley cranes his neck and nods, "Yeah. Let's go."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The excursion to the Library doesn't go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always all my heart to hanap and Jenanigans1207 for suffering my incesant pestering while writing this fic. Also to Nadzieja who is just the absolute best bean in the whole wide world.  
> And to HatKnitter who just makes everything 10000 times better!

Crowley's feet sink deeply into the densely packed snow over the garth. Not more than a foot ahead, Aziraphale slips around a wall, beckoning to Crowley with the swirl of a wrist, a demand to stop with a tight nod. It's like following a flickering light, an errant star that blazes through the dark backdrop of unyielding stone with warming, comforting nearness. 

It's quiet here. Moonlight spills through the clouds but, although the sky is finally within his reach, Crowley isn't tempted to look above. And why would he? Above. Heaven. Redemption. Mis-timed hopes of a forlorn life. That shit isn't for him.

He fastens his gaze on the furtive movements in front of him, on the zoomed-in details of white-blonde hair, of round cheeks bitten by frost, and feels something treacly crowd into the hollow space behind his ribs. They walk slowly, keen to any sound, to any odd shift of shadows, and Crowley knows full well that if they're caught, no habit will save him from a nasty demise. Incubi are not immortal like higher demons. Crowley was human once, and in honor of that pact (or perhaps to show that, even now, the rules and laws of the Almighty can't be bent to brimstone, can't be trampled by Lucifer) he's still finite. 

Forceful death would work just fine on him, and he isn't interested in trying the concept. 

He watches Aziraphale skirt around a passageway and hurries to follow him, but he isn't prepared for the hard crash when Aziraphale draws to an abrupt stop just as Crowley turns the corner. Crowley flails, loses his footing. He bumps into Aziraphale with the whole weight of his unaware steps, tumbles backwards. He doesn't manage a last-minute balancing maneuver because quickly, more quickly than he could've expected, Aziraphale shifts and clamps a warm, soft hand around his wrist, pulls hard to save him from imminent contact with the floor. Placing them mere inches apart, their bodies stalking in each other's space. 

He’s so close. _Too_ close. 

Crowey’s jaw works tightly around a swallow, and a shudder wracks him at the contact, at the blessed warmth radiating up his arm. It’s impossible to hide, impossible to deny the way he trembles as his breath fans out of him in a rush. _It’s the cold, nothing but the cold_ , he tells himself, those frost-fingers slipping all the way around him like barbed ivy, everywhere unbarred. But his heart drums in a riot, makes panic curl in his throat because it _can’t_ be, it shouldn’t be, like this. This is how it fucking starts. He's felt like this before, like a raw nerve exposed to the elements, and once this thing has sunk its nails in, has dug its thorns inside him, he will be royally fucked. The memories of betrayed trust are a heavy weight that he drags into the present, and he isn't ready to become a cored-out, miserable thing again, hoping for the grinding, stretched-out agony of his existence to be something else only because he expects it, only because _he_ … _wants it_. Yet the very tips of his fingers tingle, prickle, to touch Aziraphale, to sail over the inviting expanse of his chest, the pink of his neck, but also to curl around that cheek and brush the pad of his thumb just where the pale lashes rest.

Aziraphale's stare is intense, sweeping up his face, resting on his eyes, then heavily on his mouth, on his lips, and Crowley feels the very air shivering around them.

“Thanks,” Crowley forces out, rough and thick. 

Aziraphale nods, but it’s a jerky, unsure thing. His shoulders are set tight and his jaw clenches, as if he were trying to prevent his teeth from chattering, even though he wasn’t just seconds ago. His gaze flicks up to Crowley’s with an edge of something vulnerable in it, something frightened, and Crowley realizes he’s absolutely fucking uncomfortable in the situation he’s put them in. 

Crowley pulls back, if somewhat abruptly. 

He sees the way Aziraphale's hand hovers in the empty air where Crowley's wrist had been a second ago, until it drops slowly back at his side. "Are you alright?" he asks, hoarse. 

Crowley can't fail to see how his brow pinches as if in pain, how his fingers clench around a draping of black cloth. As if cleansing himself of the contact. 

"Ngh. Yeah." Crowley nods, pushing down the acidic ache rising up his throat, "'M fine."

"You're shivering,” Aziraphale mutters. He raises his hand again and, for the breadth of a second, Crowley thinks he’s going to touch him. But he stops, his fist falling next to his habit. 

"Demon,” Crowley says. “We don't get along with the cold." He doesn't mention that the lack of sustenance makes things even worse. "S fine. Don't worry about it."

They've reached a studded door, and Aziraphale promptly busies himself with a key he retrieves from the depths of his habit. 

Crowley stands steadily, arms crossed over his chest, while Aziraphale fumbles with the lock. "Sweet unholy fuck, it's damn freezing out here. Hurry up, will you?"

Aziraphale shoots him a look, as if to say his blasphemy didn't go unnoticed, even if, well, unheeded, and he finally pushes the door open. 

"Get in, come now," Aziraphale calls. "It'll be warmer in here."

Crowley doesn't need to be invited twice. Once inside, his body shudders at the change in temperature, and he collapses on a nearby chair. 

Aziraphale hasn’t closed the door when he _tsks_ , palming his forehead, "I forgot to bring a light!"

Crowley smirks. He snaps his fingers, and a small, bright orb appears at his side, bathing the surroundings in amber. He isn't prepared for the way Aziraphale's eyes widen, how he reaches trembling fingers toward the globe, catches himself at the last minute and pulls away. 

"It's alright," Crowley says. "You can touch, it won't burn you."

He swirls his wrist and grasps the floating orb in his hand, where it glows like a blossoming marigold, steady like a summerly sunrise. Aziraphale looks at him, and something in his face shifts, softens, before he reaches forward and touches the orb. 

"Is it some kind of demonic fire?" Aziraphale asks, but not unkindly. 

"Dunno." Crowley flicks his hand and the globe spins as if to fall, but Aziraphale catches it on his palm with a near-gasp. Crowley huffs a low chuckle, "But it's useful, is what."

"It's very beautiful," Aziraphale says, his gaze resting with some sort of quiet indulgence on Crowley's face before slipping down to the light. 

Crowley watches the angel turn the glowing sphere, examining it from all angles, curious, sliding a finger to follow the perfect curve. He's smiling, open in his joy, and Crowley can't help but do the same. 

Aziraphale is beautiful like this. 

Under the soft light, his face doesn't carry the hard lines of worry, the sharp edge of tired days smoothed out. And somewhere inside, Crowley wishes they could stay like this, in this sort of encased space where ill-defined shadows dance at their feet, cut by the hazy light. Stilled in a moment with a blazing star in their hands, a universe all their own. He gazes at the angel, at pink cheeks, slightly parted lips, the unsure, sweeping glances Aziraphale is giving him in between soft smiles, and Crowley's chest _aches_.

He should stop. 

It isn't as if anything can be done to change him, and Aziraphale has to see that, has to see him for what he is, for what he does. For the jaded, broken vessel of a thing that once knew what it was to laugh when the summer arrived, to feel melancholia settle when the autumn edged the leaves. So long ago, Lucifer ruined him so no one else would ever want him, and he wishes the world was less cruel, less prone to toss hope at him, so easily lit. There's a turmoil roiling inside him, one that tastes a bit like nostalgia, shaped exactly like that vacant part of him, that festering, gaping emptiness in his heart. He refuses to let it grow.

Crowley shakes his head. 

"Be better if we get a move on." He levers himself up from the chair, setting his jaw. "Where are the books? Don't see them around."

Aziraphale seems startled, blinks rapidly before letting the orb go. It just floats placidly between them. 

"R-right," he says, taking a step back. "Yes, you're right." He clears his throat. "They're at the back. This is the scriptorium. The books are in a different part of the Library."

They make their way between tables and desks, through a maroon landscape of hand-hewn furniture and grey walls. 

When they reach the far end of the scriptorium, Aziraphale shows him a little passageway that opens to several rooms at the sides. 

"All of our collection," Aziraphale says, gesturing towards the myriad doors, "is in here."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," as Crowley pulls the first door open and is greeted by stacked shelves, full of books, codices, and some rolled parchments, in racks and shelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling, some even spilling over the hardwood. "Couldn't be that easy, eh?"

Aziraphale scoffs, "I'm afraid not."

"So, where were those fancy books that were stolen?" 

"They were in different rooms, on different shelves."

"Not easy to locate them, then?"

"That's the thing." Aziraphale wrings his hands in that way he has, that tells Crowley he has pondered the issue for a long time now, and the conclusions had been less than stellar. "Not without the ledger."

"And?"

"And no one has had it but me."

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest and raises a brow. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

"Not even when Raphael died? Who was in charge then?"

"Not even then." Aziraphale shakes his head. "The last night he left, we closed everything as usual, and the next morning, when he didn't wake up…, Abbot Gabriel appointed me before the Library was reopened."

"So, that means that whoever stole them came to check it here, and did not raise alarms." Aziraphale nods, worrying a lip between his teeth. Crowley hums. "Show me the ledger."

"Of course." Aziraphale beckons to Crowley to follow him, not even a trace of uncertainty, of doubt or wariness. "This way."

They walk past the entrance of the passageway to a little desk set at one side. Aziraphale unlocks it with a key, extracts a thick, leather-bound book, and places it in front of Crowley. 

"Here."

Crowley opens it, leafing through the yellowed, coarse pages with deft fingers. The book is filled with handwritten notations of titles and numbers in different penmanships. Aziraphale explains succinctly that those belong to room and shelf order, very easy to locate for the Librarian. 

"But there are hundreds of entries here," Crowley says. "How does one find those jeweled books in all this," he makes some desperate, loop-like gesture, " _mess_?"

Aziraphale puffs his cheeks and splutters. "It's not a mess!" he blurts out, his tone skating between outrage and haughty contempt. "It's perfectly well organized, let me tell you, my dear."

Crowley tries not to flinch at the _'my dear_ ', lets the pause in his movements be nothing but a cracked breath, before resuming the flick of his wrist as he keeps reading. Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

"Let me," Aziraphale finally says, after Crowley spends almost a minute squinting at the squiggles on the vellum, trying to decipher their meaning. Crowley steps to the side while Aziraphale locates a page, where he stops, gesturing at a title, "Here's one." He turns a few more pages, "Here's another." And then again, "And here's the third one that was stolen."

Crowley slides a black nail carefully, underlining the letters. "Let me see the first one again." 

Aziraphale shows him, and then again when Crowley asks for the second and then third again, spending a considerable amount of time at each item.

"Do you know what this sign stands for?" Crowley points at a circle with a dot in the middle that appears at the end of each book. 

"W-why yes." Aziraphale sets his shoulders with determination, a slight wariness bleeding on his face. "It's the symbol of the Sun. Raphael tried his own coding, but he never had time to teach me all of it, only bits and pieces," he says. "It's nothing bad, you know?" he adds quickly, apprehensive. "Nothing evil."

Crowley chuckles at his defensiveness, and his fingers itch to try to smooth the crease between Aziraphale's brows, to brush his thumb over pale skin. He digs his nails hard into his palms. "I know it's nothing bad," he says instead, softly, as though speaking to a frightened child. "I just wanted to see if you knew, or if it meant something else. I know that's the Sun."

Aziraphale's brows spring into an elegant arch. "You do?" And the surprise mounted in the question makes Crowley smile even wider. 

"Yeah. Bit of an astronomer, in my free time." Crowley shrugs. It's an innocent enough statement, but the muscles of Crowley's chest tense, and he swallows, trying to push past the pain that slithers between his words and pulses behind his ribs. "But, like I said. 'Twas a long time ago."

"You like stars." It's not a question, and Aziraphale is looking at him with something devastatingly tender in the fleck of his eyes, something soft and gleaming new. Understanding, perhaps. 

And he can't deny Aziraphale, even as he feels misery bear on his skin. "Yeah, I do," he grates out. "Studied them a bit, too."

There's a moment of silence when Aziraphale just looks at him, quietly, as if seeing him for the first time. Sandaled feet shift over the hardwood and he sways a bit closer, teetering on some invisible edge drawn between the creaks of the floor, before he swallows, stifles a sigh, and pins his gaze back to the book.

"What I don't understand is why he used it for these books," Aziraphale says. His voice is raspy, as if trying to shove a whole different set of words down. "He never told me… I know they meant something else as well."

"It's pretty easy, actually," Crowley manages, thinking for a minute that his throat would refuse to let sounds out.

Aziraphale blinks. "Is it?"

"W- Yeah." Crowley licks his lips. "The Sun means gold in Alchemy. Makes sense, pricey books are tagged like that."

"You know Alchemy as well?" There's something akin to wonder blazing in Aziraphale's voice that makes Crowley reach a hand to the edge of the desk to steady himself, makes his heart beat faster. But then Aziraphale's expression crumbles. "But Alchemy is–"

"It's just a science, Angel, nothing wrong with it," Crowley hurries out. "I used to study it a bit too. Plants, mainly. It's nothing wicked, nothing evil."

Aziraphale flusters, his cheeks flushing deep pink. "But the Pope forbad–"

"Bet that was why your Brother Raphael didn't tell you everything," Crowley says softly. "Perhaps he thought you would've judged him."

"I would have never!"

"You're doing it right now."

"Yes but–"

"Mmm?"

Aziraphale considers for a few seconds before letting out a defeated, resigned sigh. "Oh, alright. I guess you're right, I am judging. But how could I not? I've heard terrible things about it."

"Maybe you could see for yourself before judging," Crowley shrugs. "Can't be that bad if Raphael studied it, hmm?"

He can almost see the way Aziraphale's thoughts collapse and coalesce back into each other, his brows pinching, the pink of his tongue peaking through his lips, and Crowley peels his gaze away, back to the book, because the sight is threatening to drag him down into its orbit and once there… once there, well, better not to think about it. 

He's about to say something else when a soft noise comes from the entrance – a muffled, shy attempt to open the door with finesse and art, clearly by someone who doesn't want to be heard, doesn't want to be noticed. Someone who shouldn't be here. 

Aziraphale's eyes shine with fear before Crowley snaps his fingers and the orb of light dies down. He can see in the darkness and realizes that here, standing where they are, they're trapped. They can't go out until the intruder leaves.

"Crowley, I can't see a thing," Aziraphale whispers at his side, but it's a ragged, tight thing, flooded with panic. To his surprise, Aziraphale quickly finds his hand, fingers warm and sweat-dewed where they press against his.

It's been long years since someone has touched him like this, freely and outside of come-stained sheets, wanting the gesture to be for nothing more than reassurance, nothing more than gentle nearness. Expecting nothing more from Crowley than to just _be_ there. It makes him feel alive in his body, in a way no amount of fucking has ever achieved. 

A frisson of fear curls around the scarred meat of his heart. It's daunting, this feeling.

"It's alright, Angel," Crowley breathes. and sets his teeth on his bottom lip. This isn't the time to dawdle. He quickly casts about the room and locates a small nook where they can hide. "C'mon. We need to go."

"The ledger!" Aziraphale yelps.

Crowley grabs the book and pulls Aziraphale between the tables, making sure the way is wide enough for Aziraphale to not hurt himself against any corners of the wood in their swift escape. They reach a secluded corner formed by two angles of the masonry, just as the door clicks open. Crowley shoves Aziraphale inside and steps in front of him. From here, he only needs to tip his head to catch glimpses of the scriptorium. 

"Quiet," Crowley whispers. They're far enough away that they won't be heard unless they make a ruckus, but he doesn't want to try their luck.

There's a moment where Crowley ponders whether to reveal himself, perhaps to scare the tosser into giving the books back, into returning him his object and to stop threatening Aziraphale's life. But if this is something deeper, or if this person has some demonic resource he's unaware of, he could end up dead, and nothing would stand between the killer and Aziraphale. 

He sees the cloaked figure carrying a small, guttering candle while making his way to the desk, and Crowley stumbles backward, afraid of being seen.

Aziraphale's hands find his hips by instinct, trying to steady him, the flare of his breath wine-sweet and hot against Crowley's neck. Standing like this, they're closer than they've ever been, and Aziraphale feels warm, so very warm and inviting, against Crowley's back, against his thighs. It's impossible to stop the shiver that wracks his spine, the way he arches into the broad expanse of Aziraphale's chest. Seeking him blindly.

"Crowley, I– You–" Aziraphale swallows, as if tugging the rest of the sentence back down. As if his throat has closed around everything else he wanted to say, while he pulls Crowley flush to him. "Are you alright?" he grates out.

There's a thready, shuddery inhale that breaks loose from the angel, and Crowley feels Aziraphale's fingers twitching against the sparse give of his skin, pressing on him. 

Crowley's breath breaks on a sigh. "Yeah, 's just the cold." He doesn't want to move but he _should_ , he knows he should, feeling the entire breadth of his want kindling inside, burning bright in his gut. Because this isn't something Aziraphale should want, and if there's something Crowley knows about, it's how easy it is to give in, in a moment like this. Warmth, darkness, and the irresistible pull and press of one body against the other. 

Crowley moves, just a tentative shift, and Aziraphale's hands tighten around him, curling firmly around the rise of his hip bones.

"S-stay. Like this," Aziraphale says, _asks_ shyly, in a burst of warm breath against his hair. "You're freezing."

Crowley can already feel the hot, hard line of Aziraphale's cock, insistent against his arse, and his hips kick back all of their own accord, grinding on Aziraphale's erection. Crowley's heart rattles in his chest, high in his throat, the moment Aziraphale gives a delightful shivery moan, muffled against the crook of Crowley's neck. His hands slide up, following the trim line of Crowley's waist, his thumbs drawing circles as if tracing the line of muscles he's discovering by touch, his lips now damp and brushing behind Crowley's ear. It's so very gentle that for a moment Crowley's chest squeezes, leaving him breathless. And it's maddening, almost, to feel the angel wanting him, daring enough to move his fingers and press his palms flat against the play of Crowley's stomach, rocking his hips forward, his erection nestled between Crowley's buttocks. Wanting him, and yet touching him so sweetly, so softly, as if afraid to break him.

Crowley thinks it might shatter him. 

As if he weren't already a mess of haphazardly stacked pieces, broken apart and put back together over and over until he has lost bits and shards of himself within time. 

And Crowley can't ask, can't demand anything more than this, because _this_ is already yards, miles better than anything he has ever had, than he has ever deserved. His spine bows, his breath trembling, and he rests his head back on Aziraphale's shoulder, hitching his hips, his own cock so hard he feels it leaking.

Aziraphale's breath catches in his chest and he laces strong arms around Crowley's midriff, one hand splayed over his chest, over his heart. Possessively, Crowley thinks. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley tries, but it comes out ragged, cracking on a strained moan, " _Angel_ , are you sure?"

Crowley's hands grip the ledger until he knows his knuckles must be blanched white at the effort he's making to not let himself go. To not bunch the habit around his waist and guide Aziraphale's hard cock inside him. To press back and make Aziraphale take every inch of his tight arse until he comes, leaving Crowley sopping with his spend. He feels hot, too tight in his skin, wanting nothing more than to let the angel do as he pleases with him, however he wants. Crowley will take whatever he gives him. But Aziraphale doesn't deserve something hurried, something hidden and tacky, with the roughness of the walls scratching his back, a frenzied thing tainted with fear. Not for his first time. 

And yet Crowley won't stop him. He won't. Not if this is something Aziraphale wants. Against all sense or reason, he knows he won't stop him, even if the only thing Aziraphale wants from him is this shallow, bleak thing. After all, it’s the only thing Crowley knows how to give. 

"Is this alright?" Aziraphale asks, breathless and unraveled, rutting against the curve of Crowley's arse. "Is this– Do _you_ want this?"

 _Yes, yes, more than anything_. 

Crowley's throat rolls on a swallow. "It's fine," he says, tersely.

Aziraphale's hands go still on him.

Far away the sound of the hurried steps of someone running along the scriptorium, and finally a door banging shut. 

Quiet. 

The violence of the noise cuts and digs through the haze, through the warmth of their bodies, and Aziraphale's hands slide down and away, slowly, as if he’s forcibly stopping himself.

Crowley blinks, his thighs quivering, legs threatening to give out from under him. He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to. He _needs_ to. 

He takes a step away. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, plaintive, flushed red, "I truly don't know what came over me. I shouldn't– I ought not–"

Hundreds of words crowd in Crowley's throat, a tight ache pulsing under his skin. He forces out, "It's fine, these kinds of things just happen. You have a body and that's that. Don't beat yourself up for it." Crowley stalks out of the small corner, trying to soothe the bruised spot in his chest. It's for the best, this. "C'mon, Angel, better get back to your cell. By now, the robber must know the ledger wasn't here and must be wondering what the Hell happened."

Crowley isn't prepared for the soft warmth that slips into his palm as he looks at the door, for the reassuring squeeze of Aziraphale's fingers around his own.

"Lead the way," Aziraphale says, a bit trembling, softly. "I can't see a thing."

Ah, of course. 

Convenience.

Crowley pushes aside the raw scrape of the realization. 

"’Course, Angel, let's go."

* * *

The way back to the cell is quiet and far more uneventful than the trip to the Library. Somewhere outside the cloister garth, Aziraphale has had to force himself to let go of Crowley's hand, even as his own skin bristled at the loss. But he has already indulged too much, has already taken far more than what he knows is permitted. 

He bites the inner flesh of his cheek, remembering the way Crowley had said it was _fine_. Stilted, the muscles of his stomach, of his chest, tightening under Aziraphale's fingers.

When he had asked him, and it had been very obvious Crowley's heart wasn't in it. That he might have let the whole thing happen _despite_ himself. With that quiet sort of determination that had told Aziraphale that this is common currency for him, that this is far from the first time it has happened like this. And the thought is so vile that it sickens him, makes bile roil in his gut, anger blaze red inside him, thinking about Crowley being treated worse than cattle. 

Yes, he wants Crowley, that's beyond question, but not like this. Never like this. Not even if it's part of his _job_. Aziraphale refuses to think about why, though, why his desire had fizzled out when met with lukewarm acceptance. It's better not to dwell much there, but it probably has to do with the fact that Crowley's the first friendly presence he’s felt in decades. So open, so giving. Selfish as his reasons may be, Aziraphale can at least grant him the benefit of the doubt, the benefit of thinking of him as more than a tool. And treat him as such. 

Like a person. 

Like a person who used to gaze at the stars, and knew their secrets. Like a person who loved plants and read Albert the Great in his free time. 

Like a man whose silky-soft red hair smells of sandalwood and some of the wildflowers that liberally blanket the slopes of the country. Whose skin is smooth and inviting, the curves of him warm and so very delicate, and yet strong with the flex of artfully-used tendons. It reminds Aziraphale of the exquisite lines of certain reliquaries, and he thinks it's fitting, somehow. A body that holds the precious shards of a dead life inside. 

What had happened to him?

It's ruinous, in a way, to realize Aziraphale only knows pieces, and he finds himself desperately wishing to know the rest. To fill in the spaces. He squints in the darkness, as if looking at Crowley hard enough might show him the things he knows he's missing. 

"Hey, Angel, we're here."

It startles him. Aziraphale blinks, finally focusing on the interior of his cell, grey and empty. He hadn't been expecting the little trip to end so soon. 

"'M leaving it for tomorrow," Crowley says, "but I think it's worth checking the ledger again. Can I keep it?"

"Yes, of course," he forces out. Aziraphale drags his feet to the bed. He feels tired, worn down and thin. "If someone asks, I'll tell them it probably got lost with the others. It doesn't matter. I know where every single book is located."

Aziraphale yawns, and stretches out on the mattress, almost without care. 

"Sleep," Crowley says, "you still have a few hours." He sits back in the chair next to the arrow slit, where the cold air bites and howls, stabs like sharp knives, and suddenly Aziraphale can't take it. 

"The bed is quite big enough for both of us," he rushes out. Not thinking. Not watching Crowley as he states something that tastes like a provocation. A baring of his own, deluded wishes. "You don't have to spend the night there, freezing."

Crowley's face forms some complicated shape, something Aziraphale believes for a second to be despair, before skidding over to surprise. Lips parted, eyes wide. Aziraphale knows it will feel ruinous when Crowley says no, even if he's half expecting it. 

Crowley licks his lips, "You sure about that?" And it's as if his throat has squeezed out the words that sound too rough in the silence. "You don't need to–"

_I do. I very much need it._

Aziraphale scoots back, leaving a space empty on the clean sheets. "It's alright, I don't mind."

Crowley's shoulders bunch high, like he's trying to shore himself up for this. As if it's a task, and Aziraphale's heart feels battered purple. He's about to back down, to tell him he doesn't have to, when Crowley moves forward, and Aziraphale's breath jams in his chest when he finally sits on the mattress, sprawls with almost liquid grace at his side.

They're brushing together, and the bed isn't big enough to pretend their feet aren't touching, their thighs sliding against each other. Aziraphale doesn't know how he will be able to sleep like this, ablaze in an all-consuming fire, every stray nerve going haywire in the proximity of Crowley's beautiful form. 

"Dunno how you can sleep on this slab," Crowley says, looking at the ceiling. "Guess it’s at least better than that blasted chair." 

"You eventually get used to it." Aziraphale doesn't say anything about the long years of pain when he was a child. Of how his spine screamed every night when he finally lay down for sleep. Of wishing to be back on the small cot full of hay in his home. 

"Right." 

Crowley remains perfectly still, and Aziraphale mirrors him earnestly. But eventually, the weight of the day falls over him, and hearing the slow cadence of Crowley's breathing, feeling the enthralling warmth of his body, he falls asleep, traipsing in the spaces between dreams and wakefulness, wishing this wasn't as fleeting as the pale moonlight. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Lord, please check the art that the absolutely WONDERFUL [lookitsstevie](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/) did for the [orb scene](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/post/644291201178157056/a-scene-from-naromoreau-s-lovely-fic) !   
> Thank you so much, baby! You're a blessing to me. 💕


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get more complicated as they're forced to face the matter of Crowley's survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a NSFW scene in this chapter and as you can see I added the Dubious Consent tag, even if really isn't. (please click on see the end for more notes for clarification)
> 
> Many thanks to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [divinehedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinehedonism/pseuds/divinehedonism), [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) and [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) for all the cheering and [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for the beta!
> 
> This Chapter also comes with NSFW art by the absolutely amazing [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja)

Aziraphale stirs awake feeling warm, as if basking under the sky in the midsummer, his skin golden, his heart light. A memory of bygone days, when he didn't have much to eat but his soul felt fuller. His eyes flutter open, however, blinking the dream away. He catches sight of the dark walls of his bedroom, of the silvery spill of moonlight slanting through the arrow slits. It's pale, soft. Just enough to outline the slopes and valleys of the body pressed tightly against him. 

Crowley's body. 

In his bed. In his arms. 

Aziraphale's breath gusts hot, because somewhere in the blessed unconscious bliss dreams grant, his own body has had the wherewithal, the courage, to seek what he can't while awake. An unremarked-upon necessity he has let slip through the cracks. And now Crowley's slender frame curls comfortably against Aziraphale's chest, as if somehow he had sought him as well, in his sleep. 

He swats the idea away, because it burns like acid. 

His arm is laced around Crowley, falling perfectly in the curve of a waist that feels remarkably small. And his grip is possessive, his fingers flexed around the cloth of Crowley's borrowed habit as if, even in dreams, Aziraphale would've known this was bound not to last. Probably even less so than this terrible winter, with its grey-gold skies.

Aziraphale's feet aren't chunks of ice, for the first time thawing in the contact of soft skin, much like his heart. Crowley's legs, his arms. The enticing warmth hidden beneath the black. He can feel the soft, shivery exhales Crowley gives to the pale shadows, the yielding warmth of him, shaped around the curves of his body. 

And it's too much, too soon because, in his unaware state, Crowley rolls his hips against him, his arse grinding sweetly against Aziraphale's half-hard cock. It leaves Aziraphale sinking blunt teeth onto his lip; his legs, his chest straining under the exertion of not giving in to the instinct to thrust, to push his hips forward, to rut shamelessly on Crowley. Burned by a fire like the one he'd felt coursing through him in that wretched moment at the library. Just then Crowley hums, a thready breath, and Aziraphale's thighs tense under the jerk of his cock trapped in his loincloth, his spine, his flesh glittering hot in Crowley's nearness. It isn't _right_. 

Because he hasn't forgotten the way Crowley had tensed in his embrace while awake. 

As much as he wants to stay right where he is, let himself fall freely into the angles of Crowley's body, pull the habit aside and kiss the slopes of his shoulders, the swath of skin of his throat, the dip of his stomach, he can't. Not like this. Of that, Aziraphale's certain. 

Because it isn't only a matter of wanting. It isn't only lust and brimstone that make his heart beat faster, louder, when Crowley presses back against him. When he smiles at him. Because, with a terrifying, shocking certainty, Aziraphale realizes that even if he’s only able to grasp Crowley's hand from here to end, that would make his entire existence bearable. 

If Crowley allowed it. 

And he feels lost. Unmoored.

Aziraphale pulls his arm away, slowly, so as to not awake the sleeping demon, sinking his nose into the skein of red hair spilling everywhere, over his own pillow, and tries not to think. His gaze follows the rivers of fire pressed between them, red enough to be loud, scandalous against the benedictian black. The strands are silk-soft against Aziraphale's cheeks, scented and comforting, and at least like this, _just like this_ , the moment stings less. 

It'd be kinder to his own heart to not want at all, but it's impossible. Aziraphale finds that Crowley has left a trail, indents of his own, inside him.

He levers himself up and out, trimming down his hopes, but before he has taken a single step away, the sheets ruffle behind him. 

"Angel?" Crowley's voice is soft, tender almost. "It's time already?"

Aziraphale swivels around, and smiles because he can’t help it, not really. Crowley’s eyes are fully yellow, sclera gone in the sleep-daze. It should frighten Aziraphale, but the way Crowley’s cheeks are pink, his hair mussed all around him, is painfully familiar, humanly raw. The mark of a creased sheet on his left cheek, the furrowed brow of exhaustion. 

It’s enough to make Aziraphale’s heart stutter. 

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale says. “I have to go, but you can rest if you want.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Crowley scoots to the edge of the mattress, stands up. “I should probably start looking at that ledger.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You sure you won’t have problems about this being lost?”

“Nothing I can’t manage.” 

Aziraphale shuffles to the door, and his hand dithers over the wood. He thinks about his work, his books, the Lord, and pulls at the doorknob with some sort of quiet defeat. To cross the threshold costs him a great deal of effort, his feet almost pulling him back inside. 

“Have a nice day, Angel,” Crowley says. "Be careful."

Aziraphale’s fingers curl and uncurl, his gaze long, and lost in the cracks of the stone wall in front of him. 

He steps out of the room without looking back. 

* * *

Aziraphale has been staring at his desk for what seems like hours. There's some sort of bubbling anxiety brewing inside him, a frisson of pain, a spark of anger underneath. 

"Aziraphale?" Newton pats him gently on the shoulder, pulling a chair for him to sit on. "Are those…?"

"Yes, I'm afraid," Aziraphale says, letting himself fall indignantly on the seat. He looks at the books tossed on his desk, the covers shredded, torn. The pages seem to be in pristine state, but the intrinsic artistic value of the treasure-embellished binding is irrevocably lost. The jewels are still there, but hanging from the leather by threads. "I found them like this. Someone brought two of the lost books back, but they're…"

"Destroyed beyond repair, it seems," a dry voice says behind them. 

Aziraphale turns around only to see Gabriel, standing close with a stern face. 

"Gabriel!"

"I was wondering what the ruckus was about. The novices are fluttering around like flies at the entrance. Put them to work, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale gives a nod to Newton, who dashes away immediately. 

"So, mystery solved then," Gabriel says, flatly.

"Not quite." Aziraphale clears his throat. "There's still one book missing."

"Are you sure? How can you know only looking at that butchery? Get me the covers and bring me the ledger," Gabriel demands. 

Heat creeps up Aziraphale's neck. "Uhm, about that…"

"What?"

"Yes, well." Aziraphale wrings his fingers. "I seem to have misplaced it."

" _What_?"

"I'm afraid I must have left it on one of the shelves, but I can't remember which," Aziraphale says a bit louder, glancing at the floor, at the windows. 

"Then what are you doing here? Go there and find it! We need an inventory, and to see if these are indeed the books that got lost!" Gabriel runs his fingers through his hair, almost pulling it, tossing his cowl off his face in the process. "Aziraphale, this is a terrible lack of care," he grates out. "You're slacking! There will be no supper for you today." He pauses to take a gulp of air. "Find that book and go back to your cell. Newt will close everything, and if I don't see the ledger back tomorrow, you can say goodbye to your position."

Gabriel doesn't give him time to insert a single word before storming off, scowling. 

Aziraphale breathes deeply and pushes himself upright. There's no need to look for something that isn't there, he knows, but he still needs to spend some time in the Library to make a show of following Gabriel's orders. He tries to calm himself, tame the mess of rogue fears. He won't be losing his position, because the ledger is safe. 

So he rummages through several shelves, putting some books in order, tending to his work on the scriptorium, unable to pore over his selected reading. He also examines the mangled pieces of the no-longer-missing books because, for him, there's no doubt. Why bring them back? Why not all of them?

He leafs through them, carefully, as if working with withering leaves. But the vellum is almost intact. The covers hold the brunt of the damage. 

When he can't take any more of the oppressive silence bearing on him, chafing his nerves, he makes his way out of the Library, avoiding even Newton. 

He goes through the hallways, almost bounding along, desperate to see Crowley. He leaves the reasons why sleeping beneath his skin. 

* * *

When Aziraphale reaches his cell, the sky is already hiding glimpses of far-away stars behind rust-edged clouds. The sun dipping beneath the shifting line of the horizon. 

He finds Crowley sitting in a chair, taking some notes on parchment he is sure wasn't there this morning. And, for a heartbeat, Aziraphale can almost peek at wisps of that past. Then Crowley lifts his gaze, bright, unguarded, and smiles at him.

"Hey, angel, how did it go?" 

He looks slightly pale, all the more noticeable against the violent red of his hair, his shoulders hunched as if he's tired. 

Aziraphale _aches_ to touch him, to rest his hand along his cheek. 

"It was… an interesting day," he says, instead. He sits on his bed, lets his body unclench from the pressure that lies outside the door of his room. 

Crowley lifts a brow. "Really?"

"Yes. Two of the books were returned, actually."

"Don't say," Crowley sing-songs, a small smirk on his lips. 

"Quite. When I got there today, my desk was in complete disarray, with two volumes on it."

Crowley nods, his forefinger tracing the line of his bottom lip. "Two, you said."

"Yes, one is still missing."

Crowley hums. "The psalter, right?"

"How–" Aziraphale recoils, blinks. "How can you possibly know that?" 

"C'mere," Crowley beckons to him with a flick of his wrist. "I have to show you something."

Aziraphale has no choice but to close the distance between them. He stands next to Crowley, watching the way his pale, slender hand rests on the open ledger. 

The hands of an artist, of a man of knowledge, more used to quills and parchment than to sliding over the stain of sweat and come on strangers' sheets. 

In another life, perhaps. 

Aziraphale grinds the barb of the idea between his teeth, ignores the dull ache somewhere behind his ribs.

"Look here," Crowley says, signaling the title of a book. 

Aziraphale bends closer. " _Ars loquendi et intelligendi in lingua hebraica_? What about it?"

"See, it has the astrological sign of Mercury at the end."

"Yes, I know," Aziraphale says, haughty. "I've deciphered some of Raphael's cataloguing coding. This sign is in all the rhetoric- and language-driven books."

"Right," Crowley says with a smile so big, it makes Aziraphale's skin crackle. "Because Mercury, being the god of heralds and orators, and all that."

"And all that, exactly. That's what I suspected," Aziraphale admits.

"Now look here." Crowley signals the title of another book. "Do you recognize this other symbol?"

Aziraphale squints. He's seen the symbol before, but he was never able to pin it to anything specific. 

He shakes his head, "I'm afraid I don't."

"Because this is an alchemical symbol, Angel, not an astrological one." Crowley turns the pages, until he finds the section that registers the three previously stolen books. "Now, tell me. Of the three books that were missing, which one has the symbol in question?"

Aziraphale takes the ledger, finding each book. He reads carefully each title. 

"The psalter," Aziraphale says, mouth dry. "The one that wasn't returned."

"Exactly." Crowley's face is grave now, a bit somber. "I searched thoroughly, and only three books have this alchemical symbol."

Aziraphale can hear his own heart beating in his ears, can feel his every swallow breath. "And?"

"Your psalter, _De pentagono Salomonis_ , and _The Mystical Theology_ of the Aeropagita."

"What does the symbol stand for?" Aziraphale asks, an eerie sort of silence swelling between them. 

"It's sulphur," Crowley says. He looks at Aziraphale intently. There's some sort of apprehension floating in the word. A tight frown in Crowley's face. "Which isn't anything evil in alchemy, but I think Raphael has used it in its most expansive meaning here."

"Do you mean…"

"Yeah. To mark something evil. Something sinful."

"But it doesn't make any sense!" Aziraphale shouts. " _De pentagono_ , perhaps. That book is vile. But how is _The Mystical Theology_ something evil?"

Crowley wets his lips and turns to face Aziraphale. 

"I think it has to do with something inside them," he says, slowly, as if still considering the statement. He tilts his head to the side, his brows pinched. "The books you got back. What was their state?"

"Torn," Aziraphale blurts out. "Completely destroyed."

"Nothing specific? Nothing that called your attention?"

Aziraphale is about to shake his head when an image from the afternoon forks across his brain. 

"There was something," he starts. 

"What?"

"The books were destroyed, but only the covers, not the pages. The vellum was intact." A scrap of acidic unease pushes up his throat. Ice fingers crawling up his spine. "What does it mean, Crowley?"

It's instinctive, the way Aziraphale searches Crowley's face for unspoken reassurance. The lingering dread of an unknown threat too heavy in his stomach. 

"I think," Crowley blinks. Pauses. "I think your brother Raphael hid something in those books. He knew something our suspect wants." Aziraphale sees the long slope of Crowley's throat roll on a hard swallow. "I also think that got him killed."

Deep down, Aziraphale must've suspected it, because the words don't chafe as bad. His hand seeks the edge of the table for balance. 

"What do we do now?"

"Angel," Crowley says. It's nothing more than a soft lilt, an almost pleading breeze. "You gotta be careful. I'd say do not accept food or wine from anyone. I can always supply that."

Aziraphale's knees seem to roll under him. But Crowley places his hand on top of the one Aziraphale has on the table, and he's able to draw one more breath. Crowley's skin is cold to the touch. "Do you really think someone…?"

"They already tried! Have you forgotten what brought me here?" And it's fierce, bright-hot, the way Crowley's voice rumbles in the silence. "This person has already killed once. I don't want–"

Aziraphale hangs on the aborted word, on the keen silence that follows. 

But Crowley pauses, winces as if he had bitten his tongue. He squeezes his eyes shut, dips his head. "You need to be careful, because I'm not out there with you to protect you, Angel." Crowley stands up and trades a heavy glance with him. He pulls at Aziraphale's hand until it's between both of his. He must see the tight angle of Aziraphale's neck, the evidence of the strangled cry that refuses to leave Aziraphale's throat, whatever wild, unhinged thing is in his eyes. "I promise you, everything will work out," Crowley says. "And I think we need to return the ledger to lure the killer out. They still need it to find the other two books. Not that we will ever allow it."

A slab of hindsight falls on Aziraphale because, despite the shadows that lurk in the dark hallways, the terror that curls ready to jump at every turn of phrase, he realizes he isn't half as scared as he should be. 

And perhaps it has to do with hands touching his, with thin fingers, sweetly wrapped around his own. 

Aziraphale nods. Tries a small smile. 

"Alright. Lead the way."

* * *

Returning the ledger to the Library is fairly easy. They wait until the darkness has fallen into every nook and cranny of the abbey, while Aziraphale eats a meal Crowley miracled for him. 

There had been a brief lapse, when Crowley had buried his forehead in his palm as if suddenly dizzy, and Aziraphale had had to guide him to sit on a chair until he grumbled that there was nothing wrong. _Nothing to worry about, Angel_. 

When Aziraphale had inquired, Crowley had promptly asked him to choose between lamb or pork sirloin, and Aziraphale had promptly forgotten about anything else. 

Inside the Library, Aziraphale doesn't dither. He knows the plan is to move the two targeted books out of their shelves, mixing them with others, then go back to his cell and talk about what must be done in the future. 

Sweat cools on his neck, along his back. The phantom fear of hearing the creaking door rattle on its hinges. Someone forcing their way inside. Aziraphale leaves the ledger on his desk and makes his way inside the Library proper, with the orb of dim light Crowley has miracled. 

It takes him not longer than a few minutes, and he almost dashes out of the room, through the small hallway to the front where Crowley waits by the door. 

But a chill settles into his heart, bites at his throat, when he finds Crowley lying on the floor. Unresponsive. 

Aziraphale feels nausea rising up in his throat, twisting and burning inside him, leaving welts of pain. It can't be. Crowley can't be dead. 

_Can he?_

He throws himself at Crowley's feet, his knees just giving out under him. He tries to ignore the horrendous pull at the pit of his stomach at the sight of Crowley's hair spilling like sacrificial blood over the hardwood. There's no easy, graceful sprawl in the way his joints are bent, nothing of the beautiful flow of muscle laid always with care, with artful mastery. So different from this morning, when Aziraphale had held him close in his arms. So softly. So gently. 

"Crowley," he whispers, but it's a frantic, choked-out thing. " _Please_ , Crowley."

He reaches a hand and shakes him slightly, but Crowley doesn't react. 

Aziraphale's trembling, wretched agony trickles slowly in the seconds while the demon lies still. He brushes a finger along Crowley's cheekbone. He's freezing. 

"Crowley, please, my dear, wake up," he calls. Not knowing if it's still possible. And the thought, the idea of Crowley never waking up, of remaining still, of this horrible sculpture of languid flesh being all that's left of him, makes Aziraphale's eyes burn with tears. 

But then Crowley groans, the sound rattling like gravel in his throat. 

He groans, and Aziraphale's heart is already thumping madly. They can't stay here, and his room is too far to carry Crowley all the way with the risk of the wakers finding them. 

They need somewhere warm. A place in which Crowley can get rid of that frost that's digging in his skin, sinking into his flesh. Aziraphale doesn't know how much time he has. 

The idea pops in his mind suddenly. 

He laces an arm around Crowley's shoulders, slides the other one beneath his legs, and he prays, begs, that the Warming House will be as empty as it always is. 

He carries Crowley effortlessly, just a slip of a thing, lax against his chest. And while he walks through the deserted hallways, praying, always praying, he can't stop thinking that if he caused this – and it's impossible for him not to know, not to realize what's the reason behind this – he will never forgive himself. 

Preventing Crowley from seeking sustenance anywhere else under an absurd sense of righteousness. A covert barb of burning jealousy. Aziraphale should've let Crowley go, let him find someone else when it became evident he wasn't at ease with Aziraphale's offering. 

Right this moment, with every step, Aziraphale seems to crack under the sharp pain of the realization. Under the intolerable sets of images of strange, odd hands on Crowley, faring his skin. Using him. Tainting his warmth. 

It shouldn't be like this. Not when Aziraphale knows there are untouched layers of humanity resting behind those yellow eyes. The vulnerable beat of a human heart behind those ribs, the clear peal of a laughter hiding in that exquisite neck. 

And Aziraphale desperately wishes to lean against those open gashes, those bleeding wounds he sees festering every time Crowley speaks about his past, and kiss them better. Everytime Crowley looks at a blank spot on the ceiling, and his face pinches, when he thinks Aziraphale isn't looking. 

He wants to make Crowley feel as if he's alive again. But that isn't his decision to make. 

Aziraphale shoulders the door of the Warming House open and locks it behind him. The instant bloom of heat stings, reassuring, against him.

In his arms, Crowley shivers, the slender curve of his body quivering as he groans, the sound buried in Aziraphale's neck. 

Aziraphale tries not to react to any of it. 

He takes Crowley closer to the roaring fire left to burn in the room, for the abbey to be always prepared for impromptu visitors. 

Aziraphale places him on the floor, where Crowley rolls onto his stomach, spread in a broken angle of legs and arms. He regrets not having a blanket to somehow ease Crowley on to, to give him some comfort. 

Crowley isn't moving, except for the eventual shuddery exhale, his lips parting from time to time. A soft whine. A strangled groan. And when Aziraphale finally decides to place a finger on the peeking paleness of Crowley's forearm he finds him wan. Unnaturally cold. 

Aziraphale reaches both hands to find Crowley's arms, by instinct, trying to transfer some of his body heat to Crowley. Rubbing around his wrists, his hands. He doesn't dare to do more, to touch him freely. 

But then, "T-take," Crowley rasps. A bruising breeze of a breath. "Take this off me." 

He's heaving with the exertion of talking, but Aziraphale is already bent at his side, brushing aside the hairs falling on Crowley's face. 

"What is it, my dear? Take what?"

Crowley manages to pinch a corner of the habit. "This." 

Aziraphale wants to protest, to say no, because he knows that, even like this, the sight will be too much to bear. But Crowley's right, and the habit is so thick, and slightly damp, that it’s only preventing Crowley from warming quickly. 

So he bites his lip and eases Crowley out of it, trying not to let his hands linger more than necessary, on the curve of a shoulder, the dip of his waist. Soon Crowley is lying bare, the play of muscle and skin smooth and golden under the crackling light of the fire. The ripple of muscle rising and falling with each shallow breath.

Aziraphale gasps, a thready, wretched thing that can't mask how eager he is, how badly the view is affecting him. Crowley's body. He's seen it once already, but not like this, with this attention to detail that puts in perspective every little scar and freckle. The dimples at the base of his spine, the long expanse of his back, the round, tight curve of his buttocks, and from where he's sitting, the dark, tucked-away place that dips down his taint. 

The scales at the sides of his hips, in his inner thighs, glimmer, and the entire sight is arresting enough to make Aziraphale's mouth run dry. Because Crowley is beautiful, far more beautiful than whatever dream has lived in Aziraphale's memory since the first time he saw him.

But he shouldn't, he shouldn't let his eyes wander, not in a moment like this. 

Crowley's eyes flicker open, unfocused and blurred. " _Angel_." And it sounds keen, earnest. Or perhaps Aziraphale just pretends as much. 

"What do you need, Crowley?" Aziraphale scoots forward and is careful not to touch him, even though he desperately wants to. "Tell me. Anything you want."

Crowley makes a pained, choked sound that grates at the back of his throat. He finds Aziraphale's eyes with his own, and Aziraphale can't stop noticing the glazed quality of them, the tears he's holding back. 

"Fuck me," Crowley says. Just like that, two words casually spoken. " _Please_ , fuck me."

But it isn't casual. Far from it. 

Not in the way Crowley's holding tension in the line of his shoulders, a single tear falling down the side of his face, unable to be contained by whatever dam Crowley placed inside him. 

It cleaves Aziraphale through, makes his stomach lurch, the realization of having Crowley like this, of having Crowley asking this of him as a last resort. 

Because there isn't another choice. 

Aziraphale grits his teeth, feels as if it’s wrenched out of him, failing to do, to say something in those brutal seconds of silence that spread treacly, heavy. Pressing him down. 

And yet he wants. He wants so sharply it's carving a hole inside him, but he's taking advantage of something dreadful, and the thought just tastes wrong. 

"I'm– I'm sorry," Crowley croaks, as if pained. "You shouldn't–"

The mere idea of Crowley thinking, even for a second, that Aziraphale doesn't want this, is enough to make him speak. 

"Anything you need of me," Aziraphale says and hears the hot swoosh of Crowley's breath so very loud in the small room.

He straddles Crowley's legs, pulling up his own habit to allow his knees to rest at the sides of Crowley's thighs. Aziraphale ceases to breath. He wants to believe, wants to think he isn't this greedy, vicious thing capable of feeling this sort of relief, of needling want, when his skin brushes against Crowley's. With the lukewarm, soft skin he's been craving to touch for a time now. 

He eases a palm along the ridge of a shoulder blade, watching Crowley stir. He can't help it, not really. And it's maddening, just this much short of vicious, how acutely aware Aziraphale is of the naked body spread beneath him, held down by his weight. Of the soft curve of the arse pushing against his front. 

His cock is already hard, jutting inside his habit, obscene and accusing, leaving a trail of slick against the coarse linen. Aching to sink into Crowley, to do what he's been dreaming of since that first night. Curl his hands around the narrow span of those hips and drive into him, working his cock slowly inside, claiming a space for himself. 

"What–" Aziraphale clears his throat, too hot. Too tight all over. _Desperate_. "What should I do?'

Crowley manages a trembling, gentle squirm underneath and raises his hand, flicks his fingers with a last sliver of strength. 

A jar of oil appears at Aziraphale's side.

"You– you need to open me up for your cock," Crowley breathes. "Your fingers. Use the oil. I can't–" A shivery intake of air. "Angel. Fuck me with your fingers first."

Aziraphale cuts off a moan, half bites a groan. 

He arranges the river of Crowley's hair to one side, watching the vulnerable, slender line of his neck. How he longs to press his lips there. "You– You need to…" Aziraphale fights for a word, to make sense of himself. "Tell me… I don't know–"

Crowley whines his assent and Aziraphale knows there's not much time to lose. 

He dips his fingers in the oil, slathers three into the jar that smells somehow flowery. It calms Aziraphale a bit, grounds him in the edge of lavender, a spark of sage. 

He draws a hand over Crowley's spine, slides it down smoothly, spanning the soft skin until he cups an arse cheek and lifts it, exposing the tight, furled rim. Aziraphale is pulsing, his heart in his throat. He dares, chooses, to be bold, and circles the entrance with a slick, warm finger. 

Crowley gives a wonderful, shivery exhale when Aziraphale presses his forefinger against the soft give. He can feel the sucking heat clutching him, clenching around him, and soon he's pushing past the first knuckle. It's tight, so very tight, as he inches deeper, so much so that he's afraid he’ll hurt Crowley. But the demon writhes beneath him, a gentle sway of hips as if encouraging Aziraphale, doing nothing to appease the throbbing ache in his cock. He thrusts, shallowly at first, until Crowley's little whines have him flicking his hand to do it more steadily. 

"Am I hurting you?" Aziraphale asks, afraid. Jaw clenched, shoulders clenched, everything clenched. Carrying the weight of not being enough in every muscle.

But Crowley shakes his head. "Add– add another," he moans. 

And Aziraphale does as he's told, watching Crowley's arsehole stretching open to take him, twitching around his glistening, thick fingers. He has never wanted anything so much as he wants to push his cock inside that space and feel the same maddening, exquisite tightness, that wonderful heat around him. Being driven to the brink. 

He hears a small moan and almost fails to realize it's him, so entranced he is, seeing his two fingers, wet and warm, disappearing inside Crowley, his thumb nudging against the sparse muscle of an arse cheek. 

"God, Aziraphale." Crowley arches, taking his fingers deeper, and Aziraphale curls them almost without thinking, dragging a high wine out of Crowley. "Fuck. That's good. Just like that." Crowley's voice is feeble, almost broken. "Now, Angel, slick yourself," he says, too soft. A sad tint around the edges that makes Aziraphale ache. "Fuck me. Put your cock inside, I can take you."

Aziraphale tenses, his thighs flexing while he slips his fingers free and slicks up his cock, rock hard and flushed. He sets his teeth on his lip to prevent himself from whining, from sobbing, perhaps. Because as he bunches up his habit he doesn't, can't, stop thinking of the circumstances that brought them here. 

That left them rotting with no way out. 

He holds himself in hand, clasping the cliff of a hip and presses the fat head of his cock against Crowley's rim. Slick and loose. Clenching around nothing. 

"Fuck me, Angel," Crowley pleads, a sob breaking high in his throat. "Fucking use me. C'mon. That's why I'm here."

Aziraphale can't bear thinking of others and Crowley. Of how many times he must've done this, forced by survival, stripped from any will. It makes something burn inside him, smolders of brimstone in his gut. " _Crowley…_ "

Much as he's doing now. 

"Just– just do it."

Aziraphale pushes inside, where Crowley's stretched open, his cockhead breaching the give of Crowley's arsehole, and it's overwhelming. To feel how wet, how tight and hot he is inside. He eases Crowley up on his knees, coaxing him to kneel on his discarded habit, because even if this is something he didn't want, Aziraphale doesn't want him to suffer. 

Crowley moans, throws his head back and rolls his hips, hitching back, forcing Aziraphale to push even deeper. And it's excruciating, how good it feels, how perfectly Crowley's walls flutter around every inch of him, every vein and ridge, as Aziraphale slides forward, pressing his groin flush to Crowley's arse. He's afraid of not managing to do much, to do anything, to just come apart in a second inside Crowley, but he takes one deep, fortifying breath and angles his hips. 

It's a wonderful thing to see, the way Crowley's flesh dapples pink, goes warm under his touch with every rush of pleasure coursing through Aziraphale. And his heart rests, beats blissful. 

Crowley makes a sound like relief, a soft outpouring of air. It's a call to attention that tells Aziraphale Crowley isn't entirely unaffected. 

And it's too much. The way Crowley's body glimmers under the amber lights of the fire, the moans cracking open from their throats, the tacky squelch of each push, the soft, slippery feeling of his scales brushing Aziraphale's inner thighs. 

The way Aziraphale's heart beats, fit to burst with the certainty that his whole life blazes in the knowledge that he would give Crowley his heart – if he would want it. 

Even if he isn't supposed to. Even if it's a sin. 

The realization pinches the air out of his lungs. It's a moment forever hanging on a dust mote, eternally on a moonbeam 

But Crowley's already moving. " _Ah, fuck_ ," he groans, swiveling his hips. A languid, long roll, fucking himself open on Aziraphale. "You can move," Crowley gasps. " _Move_ , Angel."

The command startles him out of his daze. Aziraphale feels himself moving, his hips chasing that inescapable pleasure. He thrusts deep, slow, relishing how hot and tight Crowley is. How he drags along his cock. 

"Oh, Lord, Crowley," he whines. "Oh, my dear."

Crowley pushes back, all of him so pliant, so warm and slick, taking every single one of Aziraphale's _considerable_ inches inside.

The fire burns hot at their backs, and soon Aziraphale isn't fighting it anymore, pounding away into the tight heat of Crowley's arse, moaning deeply. Swatting away the feeling that he shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he does.

"Angel, oh, fuck, angel," Crowley says. Lost, broken, half delirious already. He grinds his hips against Aziraphale's groin, as if he couldn't get enough, and Aziraphale feels upended on everything he is.

Because it's madness. To let that sliver of need seep into him. Because, as he watches the beautiful, breathtaking demon in his arms, his chest rattles with the overwhelming desire to kiss him. To press his own lips against those of Crowley, now parted and falling slack on a cry. 

They're so far apart. 

Aziraphale rocks his hips harder, deafening himself to the doubts with the moans he tears from Crowley every time he sinks down to the root. Arm around Crowley's shoulders, he pulls him back, eases him closer, wanting to rip his own habit apart to feel every inch of Crowley's skin against his, the way the round angle of his belly falls perfectly against Crowley's back. 

And when Aziraphale buries his face in the hot, small space of Crowley's neck, scents the wildflowers in his hair, he realizes there are tears soaking his cheeks. He wants to take one of Crowley's hands in his own, see his claws scratching the floor in their interlaced grasp, but he's taking so much already, bending the night into something from which there's no return. 

Aziraphale drives his cock in deeper, faster, unable to stop; the groans, whines, and moans of them combined, just pushing him closer to his orgasm. 

Many nights he's spent shuddering, his stomach splattered with come while he fucked his fist, sweat-damp and desperate, and he can feel the same scorching, heavy curl at the bottom of his spine, unraveling. 

"Crowley." Aziraphale whimpers, thrusting wet and loud. "I'm– I'm about to–"

Crowley arches, impaling himself deep on Aziraphale's cock. "Fill me up. Spend inside me, _please_ ," he almost sobs, an earnest prayer, his hand moving wildly between his legs. "Angel. Want all of it. _Need_ it."

Aziraphale grunts, a wrecked sort of sound, and manages to thrust a handful of times before Crowley is crying out, jerking, clenching around him, the clasp of his rim unbearable around Aziraphale's cock. All of him flushed. Perfect. 

He pumps Crowley full of his load, rutting brutally, his chest rumbling with a groan that he stifles, finally pressing his open mouth against Crowley's neck. 

The pantomime of a kiss. 

He's panting. They both are. 

And the world tilts, readjusts before Aziraphale's eyes when he feels Crowley moving, pushing up on his hands. As if reality was finally resuming.

Aziraphale pulls out too fast, like a scared, feral thing, whining at the drag on his oversensitive cockhead. There's a wet trail of his come spilling out of Crowley's hole and the sight stirs something selfish inside him. Bruises his heart tender. 

It's Crowley who speaks first. 

"Thanks," he says. The word is rough, almost punched out. He flicks his hand and he's already dressed and, Aziraphale supposes, clean again. He looks down, just to see he's put to rights, as well. "Sorry you had to go through that. Didn't want to make trouble for you."

He isn't looking at Aziraphale, his eyes trained on the fire. 

It stings. Rends his heart to shreds, but he can't blame him. Not after what he did. 

So Aziraphale shakes his head. "I didn't do anything I hadn't already offered to you." He swallows hard. "You didn't put me into any trouble."

Crowley barks an acidic laugh that dies down on a grimace. "Hardly the way you could've wanted to do this for the first time."

Aziraphale feels like screaming. Because he wouldn't have changed a thing, except the way Crowley had been forced to accept him. But he can't say that. Can't stack his appalled hopes on Crowley. 

"It was fine," he lies. "Don't worry about me, I'm only sorry you had to go through such an unpleasant event."

 _I'm sorry I forced you to do this_. 

Crowley snorts. "'S fine. You shouldn't worry about me either. 'S just how things are."

"But Crowley, this can't happen again," Aziraphale pleads. "You almost–"

"Yes, yes, I know," he bristles.

"And then?"

"I don't know, Angel. I don't want to force you–"

"You aren't forcing me," Aziraphale says, a bit too keenly. Too loud. 

"Yes, well, allow me to doubt it. You said so yourself." Crowley sighs, runs fingers through the long mane of his hair. "It's you, or risking us being caught. Don't see that as giving you much of a choice."

"The same goes for you."

"That's not– I'm not–" Crowley pauses. Huffs a loud puff of air. "What are you telling me? I can't keep talking in circles."

Aziraphale wrings his fingers. "Just that," _that I need you_ , "that this doesn't have to be a big deal. We are both giving our consent, aren't we?"

The gentle roll of a shoulder. "Yeah."

"Well, then. There you go. Whenever you need it."

Crowley manages a smirk. A little too tight, slightly slanted. 

"You really are something else."

The way back to the cell is quiet, and Aziraphale eases Crowley onto the bed, over his protests. He must still be tired, because he's sleeping soundly after a few minutes. 

Aziraphale sits in the chair. Far away, in the distant mountains, thunder calls. 

He watches Crowley, deep in slumber, pink lips, soft cheeks, and Aziraphale traces the words and promises that tumbled out between them.

 _Whenever you need it_ , Aziraphale had said, foolishly.

He watches Crowley, and clenches his hands at the beat of his pulse, a dark ache in his throat.

Because he isn't sure his heart will survive. He can already feel it cracking open with a howl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course they're both very willing to have sex with each other, but the fact they're holding back what they truly want/feel makes the situation a bit difficult. Therefore the Dubious Consent, because both think the other is being "forced", even when it's very consensual.

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or if you want, come and let's yell into the void on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/)<3


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